On the very early morning of February 7, 2022, a tugboat named Blarney eased away from San Diego’s Embarcadero with a rusting hulk in tow. The submarine trailing behind her had a slight list and a hull streaked with peeling paint, the kind of vessel harbor traffic barely notices anymore. Seventy nautical miles south, in Ensenada, Mexico, a scrapyard was waiting to cut her into steel.1

Seventeen years earlier, this same boat had arrived in San Diego amid crowds and fanfare, a genuine Soviet attack submarine, NATO designation Foxtrot. She would be open for public tours, her torpedo room and cramped berths drawing schoolchildren and Cold War history buffs by the thousands. Before that, she had spent decades on real patrols: shadowing American warships along the Pacific coast, prowling the Arctic, ranging as far as the Indian Ocean under orders from a Soviet Pacific Fleet that no longer exists. She was B-39, a diesel-electric attack submarine, one of the largest non-nuclear submarines the Soviet Navy ever built.

Doppelgänger

She was not, whatever some of her later promotional material implied, the submarine that nearly started a nuclear war. That distinction belongs to her sister ship, B-59, scrapped and forgotten decades earlier without ceremony, tugboat, or send-off. But B-39 was built to the same design, in the same era, for the same purpose, and her quiet, sentimental final departure from her foster home for nearly two decades - the Maritime Museum of San Diego - says something about how the Cold War’s near-catastrophes get remembered — or don’t.

B-39 was one of four Foxtrot-class submarines the Soviet Union sent toward Cuba in October 1962, part of Operation Anadyr, the covert deployment that had already placed nuclear-armed missiles ninety miles from Florida.2 Each of the four boats carried a weapon few in Washington knew about: a torpedo tipped with a ten-kiloton warhead, roughly the size of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. American planners assumed the submarines were conventionally armed. They were wrong.

On October 27, at the height of the crisis, eleven U.S. Navy destroyers and the aircraft carrier USS Randolph cornered one of the four boats, B-59, in international waters outside the formal quarantine line. The Americans wanted the submarine to surface for identification, and their method was to drop small depth charges near the hull — practice ordnance, harmless by design, but nobody had told the men inside. B-59 had been running deep and silent for days, its batteries draining, its air growing foul, cut off from Moscow and from any news of whether the crisis above had already become a war. When the explosions started, the crew had every reason to believe they were under attack.

Soviet doctrine gave B-59 the authority to fire its nuclear torpedo without further clearance from Moscow, provided three officers agreed: the captain, the political officer, and the flotilla’s chief of staff, who happened to be aboard this particular boat. Captain Valentin Savitsky, convinced the war had started, wanted to fire. The political officer agreed. That left Vasili Arkhipov, thirty-four years old, a submariner who a year earlier had been irradiated helping bring a runaway reactor under control aboard the submarine K-19. Arkhipov refused. He argued the depth charges were signals, not an attack, and that the boat should surface and attempt to raise Moscow before doing anything irreversible. Savitsky, outranked in this instance by Arkhipov’s position within the flotilla command structure, backed down. B-59 surfaced. No torpedo was fired.

Nobody outside a small circle in Moscow knew any of this had happened for forty years. Cuban Missile Crisis scholarship in the West — the memoirs, the ExComm transcripts, the standard histories that shaped how several generations understood the crisis — was written and largely settled before the story ever reached print. It surfaced only in 2002, when a retired B-59 crewman, Vadim Orlov, described the episode publicly at a Havana conference marking the crisis’s fortieth anniversary. By then, the canonical version of October 1962 had already hardened into its familiar shape: a crisis of missiles on Cuban soil and warships on a quarantine line, resolved by back-channel diplomacy between Kennedy and Khrushchev. A submarine’s three-man vote, decided in the dark by men who thought the war had already begun, had no place in that version, because almost no one writing it had ever heard of it.

It’s worth being precise about what the evidence for this actually is. The Arkhipov story, as it’s usually told, rests heavily on testimony collected well after the fact — Orlov’s 2002 account and oral histories gathered later by researchers, including Svetlana Savranskaya.3 When Russia’s Ministry of Defense declassified a tranche of Cuban Missile Crisis-related documents in 2022, the historian Sergey Radchenko noted that the Arkhipov episode was not among them.4 That doesn’t mean the story is false; several surviving crew members’ accounts converge on the same broad sequence of events, and no contemporaneous account contradicts it. But it does mean the version now repeated in documentaries and prize citations is built substantially on memory, recovered decades later, rather than on a paper trail Moscow has ever chosen to confirm.

That’s a natural stopping point before moving into the recognition/non-recognition section. Want me to continue straight into that — the Future of Life Award, the absence of any Russian state honor, and the parallel with Petrov — or do you want to look this over first?

For an act now routinely described as having saved the world, Arkhipov received remarkably little for it. He returned to Soviet naval service, was promoted to rear admiral and later vice admiral, and eventually commanded the Kirov Naval Academy before retiring in 1988. He died in 1998, largely unknown outside a small circle of historians and archivists who had begun piecing together what happened aboard B-59. No Soviet decoration marked the decision. No Hero of the Soviet Union title, and after 1991, no equivalent Russian honor either. His family has said he never spoke of it as heroism, only as a job he had done correctly.

Recognition, when it came, came from elsewhere. In 2017, on the fifty-fifth anniversary of the incident, the Future of Life Institute — an American nonprofit focused on existential risk, not a branch of any government — flew Arkhipov’s daughter and grandson to London and presented them with the institute’s inaugural award and a fifty-thousand-dollar prize. It was, by design, an award for people who had done something enormous without ever being properly thanked for it. Arkhipov qualified by every measure except the obvious one: his own country had never thanked him at all. When Russia’s Ministry of Defense declassified Cuban Missile Crisis documents in 2022, sixty years after the fact, the Arkhipov episode did not appear among them — not disputed, not confirmed, simply absent, as though the institution with the most direct interest in the story had decided it wasn’t the government’s story to tell.

He was not alone in this. The Future of Life Institute’s second honoree was Stanislav Petrov, the Soviet air defense officer who, in 1983, correctly judged a satellite warning of incoming American missiles to be a false alarm rather than passing it up the chain toward a possible retaliatory launch. Petrov, too, went essentially unrecognized at home for decades, living out his later years in modest circumstances outside Moscow until Western journalists and filmmakers rediscovered his story in the 2000s. Two men, in two different decades, made the single most consequential decision available to them under conditions of maximum uncertainty and minimum information — and in both cases, the institutions best positioned to preserve and honor that judgment let it lapse into obscurity, or worse, quietly declined to claim it.5

There’s a version of this that reads as simple irony: the government’s incentive not to advertise how close its own protocols came to causing a catastrophe, versus a private institute’s incentive to make exactly that point as loudly as possible. But it’s also a preservation problem, not just a recognition problem. A near-miss with no official record and no state-sanctioned narrative depends entirely on individuals — retired crewmen willing to talk, historians willing to chase down oral testimony, a foundation willing to fund an award ceremony — to keep it from disappearing. It is, in miniature, the same dynamic now playing out with the physical infrastructure of the Cold War itself.

The infrastructure of the Manhattan Project raises the same question with even higher stakes, because unlike a submarine’s three-man vote, it left physical evidence — buildings, control rooms, test craters — spread across three states. Manhattan Project National Historical Park, established in 2015, jointly manages sites at Los Alamos, Hanford, and Oak Ridge through an unusual partnership between the National Park Service and the Department of Energy, the two agencies with the most direct institutional memory of what happened at each location.

That access is narrowing at the institutional level too. The National Park Service has lost close to a quarter of its permanent workforce since January 2025, through a combination of mass terminations, deferred resignations, and early retirements. The administration’s proposed 2027 budget calls for further cuts to park operations and to the Historic Preservation Fund, the primary federal mechanism for protecting historic and cultural sites nationwide; Congress rejected the most severe version of these cuts for fiscal year 2026, but only after NPS had already shed thousands of positions, and only through flat funding rather than any increase to match rising visitation and deferred maintenance. Visitor centers are reducing hours. Interpretive staff — the rangers whose job is specifically to explain what a place like Trinity or the Los Alamos Gun Site actually means — are among the hardest-hit positions because they sit furthest from the “visitor-facing” roles the Department of the Interior has prioritized in recent restructuring.

The pattern is not unique to nuclear history, but it carries particular weight there because the thing being under-resourced isn’t scenery — it’s the institutional memory of the single closest call to nuclear war in recorded history, and the sites where the weapons that made it possible were built. A generation from now, the difference between an actively staffed historic site with rangers trained to explain what the Trinity Test actually demonstrated, and an unstaffed one where visitors read a plaque and move on, is the difference between a nation that remembers why it built the thing that nearly destroyed everything, and one that merely owns the real estate.

I have seen a version of this erosion firsthand. A lottery ticket got me onto one of Los Alamos National Laboratory’s Behind-the-Fence tours, four hours inside the security perimeter at Technical Area 18, standing in the Slotin Building where a 1946 criticality accident killed a physicist and reshaped laboratory safety culture for a generation. The tour still runs — the October 2026 lottery closed in June, and results went out on schedule — which is worth saying plainly, because not every closure in this story is speculative. Hanford’s B Reactor is a cleaner example of what’s actually being lost. Tours there, once a reliable way to stand inside the world’s first full-scale plutonium production reactor, were suspended after the 2023 season for preservation work originally expected to last two seasons. That closure has since been extended through 2028, five years of a National Historic Landmark inaccessible to the public it belongs to, closed not by any single decision to shut it down but by a preservation timeline that keeps slipping.

Neither of these closures happened because anyone decided nuclear history wasn’t worth funding. That’s what makes the broader pattern worth taking seriously rather than dismissing as routine maintenance. The National Park Service has lost close to a quarter of its permanent workforce since January 2025. Congress has twice rejected the administration’s most severe proposed cuts to park operations, in both the 2026 and 2027 budget cycles, but only by holding funding roughly flat while a mounting backlog of deferred maintenance and rising visitation grow. Interpretive rangers — the staff whose specific job is explaining to a visitor why the Slotin Building or the B Reactor control room matters — sit further from the “visitor-facing” roles the Department of the Interior has prioritized in recent restructuring than the term might suggest. The sites aren’t being shuttered. They’re being allowed to thin out, one unfilled position and one deferred repair at a time, until the history they hold becomes harder to reach and harder to explain.

The clearest single image of this pattern isn’t in New Mexico or Washington State, though. It’s in North Dakota, at a site most Americans have never heard of. The Stanley R. Mickelsen Safeguard Complex outside Nekoma was the only base ever completed under the Safeguard anti-ballistic missile program — a pyramid-shaped radar facility, part of a defense system so expensive and so quickly obsolete that Congress voted to deactivate it after eight months of operation in 1975. It sat abandoned for decades before selling at a government auction in 2012 to a Hutterite farming colony, whose leaders, fittingly for a pacifist Christian sect, called it a monument to peace. In October 2022, the National Park Service identified the Missile Site Radar as worthy of National Historic Landmark consideration, a genuine step toward federal preservation. That same year, North Dakota’s governor announced that a county development authority had struck a deal to sell the site to a cryptocurrency-mining company, which planned to convert the pyramid into a data center, with a museum and interpretive center offered as an afterthought alongside the servers. The governor who made that announcement, Doug Burgum, is now the Secretary of the Interior, overseeing the same National Park Service now absorbing the staffing losses described above.

There’s no need to call this corruption. It’s simpler and more revealing than that: given a Cold War site the federal government had just flagged as historically significant, the choice was commercial redevelopment, not preservation, and the man who made that choice now sets policy for every other site like it in the country.

Which brings the argument back to where it started, on a tugboat towing a rusting submarine toward a scrapyard in Ensenada. B-39 was saved from that fate once already — not by the Navy that built her, not by either government that owned her afterward, but by teachers and enthusiasts who objected when a museum considered scuttling her as an artificial reef. Arkhipov’s decision aboard B-59 survived in public memory not because Moscow archived it as a lesson in restraint, but because a retired crewman chose to talk, four decades later, at a conference nobody in Washington was required to attend. The Nekoma pyramid survives today as a museum footnote inside a crypto facility because a state government decided that it was worth more than what the Park Service had just recognized in it.

None of these are memory-keeping systems working as designed. They are surviving in memory anyway, on the initiative of people with no institutional obligation to preserve it, despite institutions that had every obligation and let it slide. Avoiding a nuclear exchange over Cuba in October 1962 should sit in the same rank of historical consequence as the Trinity test itself — the day the theoretical became a working weapon, and the day, seventeen years later, a single officer’s judgment kept that weapon from being used against the country that split the atom to build it. That the first event is barely taught and the second is losing its rangers isn’t a coincidence. Both are inconvenient to remember: one because it exposes how thin the margin actually was, the other because remembering it costs money nobody in power has chosen to keep spending. The amateurs keep showing up anyway. Whether that’s a comfort or an indictment probably depends on how long you’re willing to wait for anyone else to.

“The Underwater Cuban Missile Crisis at 60,” National Security Archive, October 2022 — A briefing book assembled from the 2002 Havana conference and subsequent interviews with B-59 veterans, including the core declassified U.S. and Soviet records; the primary documentary basis for the standard Arkhipov narrative.

Sergey Radchenko, interview with Meduza, December 2024 — Radchenko, a historian at Johns Hopkins SAIS and author of To Run the World: The Kremlin’s Cold War Bid for Global Power (Cambridge, 2024), argues that the Arkhipov story as commonly told rests on oral testimony collected decades after the fact, and notes that Russia’s 2022 declassification of Cuban Missile Crisis materials did not include any documentation of the incident. His skepticism concerns the sourcing, not the broader danger of the crisis, which he doesn’t dispute.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Custody Is Not Control

Over the past year The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists has published articles arguing that the United Kingdom is shifting its nuclear weapons policy from deterrence toward war-fighting. Ian Stewart’s June 2025 analysis worried about the wisdom of reintroducing an air-launched tactical capability. S.M. Amadae and Tom Stevenson’s July 2026 follow-up went further, treating the arrival of American B61-12 bombs at RAF Lakenheath, carried on specially configured stealth-capable F-35As, as evidence of a shift favoring first use of nuclear weapons.1 Both pieces get the facts right; the interpretation is wrong, because both treat a change in geography as a change in sovereignty.

The B61-12, wherever it is stored, remains an American weapon under American authority. RAF Lakenheath has historically been a base where US nuclear weapons are stored — it is, in the relevant sense, an American military installation. Nothing in UK, NATO, or US policy transfers custody or release authority to British military or political leadership, and nothing currently under discussion would. RAF Lakenheath’s modernization changes where the weapons are stored; it does not change who decides when and how they would be used. Treating this as a step toward British “war-fighting” conflates the forward basing of a US asset with an expansion of British agency — a distinction that matters enormously once you start comparing Britain’s position to France’s.

There is a second, related error running through the Amadae and Stevenson piece: the reflexive labeling of the B61-12 as a “tactical” nuclear weapon. It in fact carries a selectable-yield design and precision guidance that make it usable across a spectrum running from sub-kiloton to strategic-scale detonations, depending on mission requirements. It is arguably the most operationally sophisticated nuclear weapon in the American arsenal, and it is likely to remain in service for another two decades. Treating a dial-a-yield, dual-role weapon as inherently escalatory because it is smaller than a Trident warhead mistakes flexibility for aggression. The doctrinal significance of the B61-12’s return to Europe is real, but it belongs to Washington’s calculus, not London’s.

Less is More

That distinction becomes sharper once you look at what Britain actually controls, and how little room it has to expand it. The UK’s nuclear deterrent rests on a single warhead design, the incoming A21/Mk7, replacing the aging Holbrook warhead for the Trident II D5 missile. Unlike the United States, France, or Russia, Britain fields no second design for a different delivery system — there is no British equivalent to the French ASMPA cruise-missile warhead sitting alongside a submarine-launched one. Everything rests on a single production line at the Atomic Weapons Establishment, which is already committed through the 2030s to producing the Trident replacement.

That single-design dependency intersects with a submarine posture that has, for decades, kept usable warhead numbers well below the paper ceiling. Britain’s continuous at-sea deterrent has historically meant one boat on patrol, one in reactor refit or deep maintenance, and one or two cycling through workup and stand-down — not four boats simultaneously available for surge deployment. The 2021 decision to raise the warhead stockpile cap from 180 to 260 made news as a reversal of thirty years of disarmament, but a paper ceiling is not an operational capability. The number of warheads that can actually be flown, loaded, and put to sea at any given moment is bounded by submarine availability, missile compartment capacity, and AWE’s production and maintenance throughput — all of which are budget-constrained, and none of which have expanded in proportion to the stockpile cap. An arsenal whose usable size is set by a maintenance and refit cycle, not by strategic intent, is a poor basis for the “war-fighting” narrative the Bulletin articles have advanced.

The RAF’s own recent statements confirm this reading better than any outside analyst could. Despite the buzz around the June 2025 Strategic Defence Review and the announcement that Britain would purchase F-35As and join NATO’s nuclear mission, the RAF has since confirmed that its first F-35As will not be delivered in a nuclear-capable configuration, and that Britain will not be in a position to participate in NATO’s nuclear air component for several years. Air Vice-Marshal Jim Beck countered speculation that the first dozen F-35As delivered to the RAF would be configured for dual-capable use, noting that while a nuclear role for future aircraft is under consideration, the RAF has not held a nuclear role for more than two decades. The first dozen aircraft, he said, will serve exclusively for operational conversion training. How the UK will pursue the nuclear mission, including the ability to deliver US B61-12 bombs, remains a work in progress: “We’re doing the analysis to understand the size and posture of force that we will need to undertake this.”2

That is the posture of a defense budget under sustained pressure, not one expanding its nuclear role. Defence Secretary John Healey underscored the point himself, resigning in June 2026 over what he judged an inadequate Defence Investment Plan — before returning to government weeks later as Chancellor under new Prime Minister Andy Burnham. A government reshuffled around a dispute over defense funding is not a government quietly building toward nuclear war-fighting. The gap between announcement and delivery is not incidental to this story; it is the story.

Vive la Difference

Set this against France, and the contrast becomes the real subject of this series. The French deterrent is not merely rhetorically independent — it is operationally and industrially self-contained, from warhead design through delivery, with no American component anywhere in the chain. When President Macron unveiled France’s doctrine of “forward deterrence” (dissuasion avancée) in March 2026, he was explicit that France would retain sole authority over its own nuclear threshold, even as it invited European partners — now numbering nine, including Germany, Belgium, Poland, and the Nordic and Baltic states — into deeper coordination, exercises, and eventually the temporary deployment of French air assets on partner territory. No treaty guarantee accompanies it, deliberately. France is extending consultation, not extending control, and Macron has been careful to say so.

Britain and France took a parallel but distinct step in July 2025 with the Northwood Declaration, signed by Starmer and Macron at the close of a state visit.3 For the first time since the 1995 Chequers Declaration, the two governments stated publicly that their nuclear deterrents, while remaining fully independent of one another, can be coordinated in response to a shared threat to European security. A new UK-France Nuclear Steering Group, co-chaired out of the Cabinet Office and the Élysée, now oversees that coordination, alongside commitments to joint submarine patrolling and joint research and development.

It is worth noting what Northwood is not: it is not a merger of decision-making, and it does not touch the B61-12 question at all. It is Britain hedging — modestly, and without abandoning the American relationship — toward the one European nuclear guarantee that does not run through Washington.

That hedge is realistic precisely because of the constraints already described. Britain cannot, within any plausible defense budget over the next decade, build a second warhead design, a second delivery system, or achieve independence from American missile technology, maintenance support, and targeting infrastructure — the entanglements the 2025 Strategic Defence Review’s own critics have pointed to. The RAF’s own admission that nuclear-capable F-35s and NATO nuclear air component participation are years away is a budgetary fact, not a strategic choice waiting to be reversed. Britain’s deterrent will remain, for the foreseeable future, “operationally independent” in the narrow sense of requiring no foreign permission to fire its own missiles, while remaining thoroughly dependent on the United States for the hardware, maintenance, and infrastructure that make that firing possible.

France has no such dependency, and that is the fact both Bulletin pieces missed by focusing so tightly on the B61-12. The weapon everyone is watching at Lakenheath is the least autonomous nuclear capability in Europe, not the most consequential one. The real question for the next decade of European deterrence is not whether Britain is drifting toward nuclear war-fighting — its budget will not allow it to drift very far in any direction — but how far Northwood-style coordination between London and Paris can substitute, even partially, for the American guarantee that both countries increasingly have reason to doubt. That is where this series is going next.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Notes:

Second in a series. The first installment, “RV Calypso: The Wreck and the Restoration,” told the story of the ship’s sinking and the strange legal afterlife that followed. This piece, and the two that follow it, look more closely at the people who fought over what should happen to her, as bits and pieces of the legendary vessel adored by millions lie scattered from Istanbul to storage in France and Norfolk, Virginia.

On January 8, 1996, a barge being repositioned in Singapore harbor struck the wooden hull of the RV Calypso below her waterline, and she soon sank with only her superstructure above the surface. This little ship was treasured in the hearts of millions of TV viewers of the undersea exploration programs of Jacques Cousteau. News of the sinking soon traveled around the world.

She was raised seventeen days later, her wooden hull soaked through, her hold full of harbor silt. Jacques Cousteau was eighty-five years old and in failing health. He did not go to Singapore himself. By most accounts, there was an atmosphere of disbelief at the extent of the damage to the hull. Cousteau was not confident that the people on the scene — there to prepare Calypso for her next voyage — could tell him whether the ship could still be saved.

There is no formal record of what happened next — no cable, no logged instruction, nothing that survives in an archive. But those who knew Cousteau’s habits find it hard to imagine he would have trusted anyone but Albert Falco to make that judgment. Falco had been gone from the Calypso for six years by then, retired since 1990 after thirty-seven years aboard her — first as a deckhand, then as her chief diver, then, after Simone Melchior fought the French maritime bureaucracy to get him certified despite the injury to his hand, as her captain. His retirement had been reported in the French press as a small national event. If Cousteau wanted one honest opinion on whether Calypso could still be brought home, Falco is the man the story keeps pointing to — not because a document says so, but because everyone else in it seems to assume it.

Falco’s own path to the ship had nothing to do with the sea’s romance and everything to do with bad luck turning, eventually, into good luck. In 1946, at eighteen, he was helping clear wartime mines near Marseille when a device detonated and took four finger segments from his left hand. The injury made him hard to hire. Years later, a friend recommended him to Cousteau anyway, for the roughest kind of work — laborer, deckhand — on a ship the Cousteaus had only just acquired. Cousteau took him on. The hand that had cost him other jobs turned out not to matter underwater, and within a few years the crew were calling him l’homme poisson — the fish-man — for how naturally he moved in it.

Divers patched the damaged hull so that she could be pumped out and raised, and Falco inspected what was left. Placed on a transport barge, she was towed back to France and settled into the dry dock of the maritime museum basin at La Rochelle, where she was meant to be evaluated and, eventually, restored. Cousteau died on June 25, 1997, before any details could be resolved, having written that he wanted the ship to remain “at the service of science and education.” What he left behind instead was a hull with nowhere to go and no one yet empowered to decide what “restoration” would even mean — a working ship again, or a static display for visitors drawn by sentiment and curiosity.

She sat at La Rochelle rotting for years while the ownership question worked its way through lawyers and courts. It was in the middle of that limbo — with nothing moving, nothing permitted, no conservation work allowed while Francine Cousteau, his second wife and sole designated successor, held the ship in a kind of legal suspension — that Falco is understood to have first put words to what everyone who saw her could tell just by looking. Asked whether Calypso could ever sail the oceans again, he said: “Everything which is not rusted is rotten, and everything which is not rotten is rusted.” The line would later be attributed, in a 2003 Guardian piece, to Patrick Schnepp, the director of the La Rochelle maritime museum — Schnepp, by that account, was expressing his own disgust at the ship’s condition and repeating an observation that had already taken hold among the people who dealt with her daily. By the accounts of those who worked around the ship, Falco said it first. Schnepp, and everyone since, has been quoting him.

The line did more than describe a hull. It captured the trap the ship was already in, years before anyone outside the family understood why nothing was happening. Calypso was not simply neglected. She was frozen — held in a legal and emotional standoff between two competing ideas of what Cousteau himself would have wanted for her, argued over by people who had never agreed on much else. That argument, and the divers and family members who lined up on either side of it, is where this story goes next.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Next: Two Widows, Two Visions — the fight between Francine Cousteau and Alexandra Cousteau granddaughter of Cousteau’s first wife Simone Melchior over what Jacques Cousteau’s own wish for the ship actually was, and how a Guinness heir ended up deciding between them.

Further reading:

The Cultural Christian

On Easter Sunday, March 31, 2024, Rachel Johnson interviewed Dawkins on LBC, a national talk radio station.1 Dawkins — author of The God Delusion and founder of the Richard Dawkins Foundation for Reason and Science — lamented the Ramadan lights then illuminating Oxford Street. When Johnson asked whether declining church attendance alongside mosque construction across Europe troubled him, he said it did. He told Johnson he was not a believer, but that he loved hymns and Christmas carols, felt at home in the Christian ethos, and would be sorry to lose the cathedrals and parish churches. Asked to choose between Christianity and Islam, he said he would choose Christianity every time, calling it a “fundamentally decent religion, in a way that I think Islam is not.”

It is worth recording the Britain in which he said this. The Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak, was a practicing Hindu who had lit Diwali candles on the doorstep of 10 Downing Street. The Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan — the man who had switched on the lights Dawkins was lamenting — was a Muslim, elected three times by the capital’s voters. The monarch, at his coronation the previous May, had pledged to foster an environment in which people of all faiths and beliefs could live freely. The lights themselves came down in mid-April, replaced in due course by the Christmas displays that have decorated the same streets for seventy years. Nobody had proposed removing a cathedral.

The Position He Argued Should Not Exist

There is nothing incoherent about an unbeliever who loves choral evensong and Gothic architecture. Roger Scruton spent decades constructing exactly that position, openly and carefully. Millions of people hold it without ceremony.

The difficulty is particular to Dawkins, and it is one of self-contradiction. The thesis of The God Delusion was binary: religion is an empirical claim about the universe, the claim is false, and the falsehood matters. The book reserved specific criticism for moderate and cultural religion, arguing that mild, respectable, tradition-loving faith provides the climate in which harder belief flourishes. Dawkins described God as a delusion, characterized faith as a “virus of the mind,” and argued that raising children within a religion was a form of abuse. The comfortable middle ground — not believing, but belonging — was precisely the ground he spent thirty years arguing no honest thinker could occupy.

That is the ground he now claims for himself. And he claims it selectively. The cultural products of Christianity — the hymns, the carols, the cathedrals — earn the religion his verdict of “fundamentally decent.” Islam’s cultural products are not entered into evidence: not the Alhambra, not the preservation and extension of Greek mathematics, not algebra or observational astronomy or a poetic tradition running from Rumi to the present, not the thirty thousand lights on Oxford Street. The same test, applied to one religion through its art and to the other through its worst adherents, produces the two verdicts he gave Rachel Johnson.

The Standard Applied Twice

Dawkins’s scientific writing is exact. His writing about cultures is not, and the difference predates the LBC interview by more than a decade.

In 2013 he tweeted that Trinity College, Cambridge, had won more Nobel Prizes than all the world’s Muslims. The comparison is arithmetically true and analytically empty, and Dawkins — a career academic — knows what determines research output: laboratory infrastructure, state funding, capital, political stability, and the accumulated advantages of institutions like Trinity College. The tweet presented a measure of those things as though it were a measure of theology, applied to 1.8 billion people.

The 2024 interview completed the pattern. Ramadan commemorates events no more empirically verifiable than the Resurrection; a strict application of Dawkins’s own standard treats the two sets of lights identically. His objection was not that Londoners were celebrating the unprovable. It was which unprovable tradition had become visible on Oxford Street.

The James Watson Exemption

Why has none of this cost him his standing? The history of science offers a precedent: James Watson.

For decades the co-discoverer of the DNA double helix was extended what might be called a genius pass. His remarks on women, on eugenics, and on race were absorbed by the scientific establishment as the eccentricities of a monument. The pass was withdrawn only in stages: after his 2007 comments on race and intelligence, Watson lost his administrative role at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory; after he repeated the claims in a 2019 documentary, the laboratory revoked his honorary titles. (I have written separately about Watson’s treatment of Rosalind Franklin; that piece remains among the most read in this publication’s archive.)2

Dawkins holds a comparable pass in British public life, sustained by three things.

Accent and class. Dawkins is a product of the Oxford establishment, and his views arrive in the measured cadence of an emeritus professor. British broadcasters and broadsheets accordingly file him under “provocateur” — a category that would not be available to a caller phoning LBC to say the same words in a different accent.

Accumulated goodwill. His defense of evolutionary science against American creationism in the 1980s and 1990s earned him decades of credit with liberal audiences. When his target shifted from Kansas school boards to Islam, the credit transferred with him, and the new campaign was received as a continuation of the old one.

Geopolitical alignment. Watson’s racial claims collided with the postwar civil rights consensus and eventually cost him his titles. Dawkins’s characterization of Islam as uniquely indecent collides with nothing; it runs parallel to a strain of mainstream political discourse across Britain and Europe, and so reads as commentary rather than transgression.

Conclusion

The “cultural Christian” label does not resolve the contradiction in Dawkins’s position; it relocates it. A campaign conducted for half a century in the name of universal reason has arrived at a local preference — for the hymns of one tradition over the lights of another, defended on grounds his own books ruled out of court. The man who wrote that a religious upbringing was a form of child abuse now takes comfort in the ethos that upbringing produced, and extends that comfort to one religion only. Readers of The God Delusion, including its many Muslim readers, can draw their own conclusions about what the campaign was for.

Reader note: The author is neither a Muslim nor an atheist. He stands, intellectually, closer to Richard Feynman on the shore — humbled by what is not understood, and skeptical of those who claim to have settled it.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Part One of this essay traced eight decades of films that tried, in one form or another, to keep nuclear war in public consciousness, and found a consistent pattern underneath the variety: the directors who made the most enduring warnings usually had to fight their own governments, or route around them entirely, to get the material right. However, the film long expected to complete this arc, James Cameron’s Ghosts of Hiroshima, would break that pattern entirely, needing no government’s permission at all, because its raw material is not a weapon system any state wants kept secret. It is the testimony of the last living witnesses to what that weapon actually did. But the project’s status has shifted since it was first announced. As recently as this past December, Cameron himself said in a podcast interview that the film is “nowhere near happening,” citing ten other projects ahead of it in his queue. Whether Cameron ultimately makes this film, and when, is now genuinely an open question rather than a settled certainty, and that uncertainty changes what this second half of the article is actually arguing.

That uncertainty is arriving at the worst possible moment, because the testimony itself is running out regardless of what any studio decides. As of this past March, Japan’s Ministry of Health, Labor and Welfare recorded 91,105 people still holding an official hibakusha certificate, the legal designation for atomic bomb survivors. That is down from 99,130 the year before — itself the first time the count had fallen below one hundred thousand — a decline of just over eight thousand people in twelve months. Their average age is now 86.66. At its peak in 1981, the certified hibakusha population stood above 372,000. Within the working life of anyone reading this, the number of people who can describe August 6th and 9th, 1945, from direct memory will reach zero, and the last living check on the tendency to let those dates flatten into an annual wire photo of paper cranes will go with them.

Among that shrinking population, one man’s story stands apart by simple statistical improbability. Tsutomu Yamaguchi was a twenty-nine-year-old engineer for Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, in Hiroshima on a business trip, when the first bomb detonated less than two miles from where he had just stepped off a streetcar. He suffered ruptured eardrums and severe burns to his upper body, spent the night in an air raid shelter, and traveled home the next day to Nagasaki, where he returned to work and described what he had seen in Hiroshima to colleagues who did not entirely believe him. Three days after the first bombing, while he was mid-sentence describing the blast to his supervisor, the second bomb detonated over Nagasaki. Yamaguchi survived that one too. Only in 2009 did the Japanese government make his double exposure official, certifying him as the only person recognized as a survivor of both bombings under both cities’ separate registries. He died the following January, at ninety-three, of stomach cancer.

What tends to get lost in the retelling of Yamaguchi’s story as a piece of grim statistical trivia, the double survivor, the unluckiest and luckiest man alive, is what he did with the rest of his life once the improbability of his survival became a matter of public record. He spent his final years as an outspoken and unambiguous critic of nuclear weapons, testifying before the United Nations in New York on the case for abolition, and giving interviews in which he said plainly that he could not understand why the world continued developing weapons whose agony he did not believe anyone else could understand secondhand.

He and thousands of other hibakusha also carried a second, quieter burden throughout their postwar lives, one that has nothing to do with the blast itself. For decades after the war, survivors and their children faced documented discrimination in marriage and employment, driven by an unfounded public fear that radiation exposure was somehow contagious or heritable in a way that would taint a future spouse or prejudice an employer. That fear persisted long after the science had settled the question. Multi-decade cohort studies tracking tens of thousands of children born to survivors between the mid-1940s and mid-1980s have found no discernible effect of parental radiation exposure on their offspring’s health, no elevated rate of birth defects, nothing resembling the folk fear that shaped how hibakusha were treated by their own countrymen for half a century. The stigma outlived the science that should have ended it by decades, which is its own quiet indictment of how badly public understanding of radiation lagged the actual research. I would not be surprised if a studio feature trims this part of the record for pacing. It is the least cinematic part of the story and the hardest to dramatize inside a two-hour runtime built around double catastrophic events. If it does get cut, it will be worth returning to in print, because it is not a footnote to Yamaguchi’s activism. It was a large part of what he was actually campaigning against, right up to the end of his life.

It is also worth saying plainly that Cameron’s film will not be the first attempt to tell this story on screen, only the first with this scale of resources and reach behind it. Survivor testimony has been the subject of serious documentary work for decades: Steven Okazaki’s White Light/Black Rain assembled firsthand accounts alongside archival footage in 2007; a 2011 short documentary, Twice Bombed: The Legacy of Yamaguchi Tsutomu, traced Yamaguchi’s own final years directly, with Cameron himself appearing in it as an interview subject discussing his still-unmade project. None of these reached anything like a mass audience, which is precisely the gap Cameron’s version is positioned to close. The survivor testimony has existed, carefully documented and freely available, for most of the twenty-first century. What has been missing is not the material. It is a director with the resources to put that material in front of the number of people the subject actually demands.

In December 2009, weeks before he died, Yamaguchi met in his hospital room with Cameron and the writer Charles Pellegrino, who had been researching and recording survivor testimony, Yamaguchi’s prominent among it. Yamaguchi told them he believed it was their destiny to make a film about the use of nuclear weapons on a whole city’s population. Cameron has since described that meeting as the origin of a promise he has carried for over fifteen years, and has said publicly that he intends the resulting film to center on Yamaguchi’s story specifically. It is worth being precise about the difference between those two things: Yamaguchi’s own words, as recorded, were a broader charge about telling the survivors’ story, not a specific request that Cameron build a film narrowly around his individual life. The narrower framing is Cameron’s own interpretation of what he owes to that deathbed meeting, not a direct quotation of what he was asked to do. It does not make the resulting commitment any less real. It just means the record supports calling this Cameron fulfilling a promise, rather than executing an instruction issued in those exact terms.

The book itself has had a difficult history that says something useful about how hard it is to get this kind of testimony right the first time. Pellegrino’s original account, published in 2010 as The Last Train from Hiroshima, was pulled from publication within months after it emerged that one of its key sources, a man named Joseph Fuoco who claimed to have flown on a Hiroshima mission aircraft, had fabricated his entire war record. Pellegrino had trusted forged documents and a false veteran’s account, and the publisher withdrew the book once the family of the actual flight engineer whose position Fuoco had claimed exposed the deception. It is a strange and fitting echo of a problem that runs through the whole nuclear history this essay has been tracing: the gap between what actually happened and what gets repeated about it, the same gap that let a manufactured quotation from a 1965 television interview become permanently and wrongly attached to the moment of the Trinity test itself. Pellegrino spent the following years rebuilding the work from the ground up, returning to survivors and their families, cross-referencing accounts against forensic and physical evidence rather than relying on any single uncorroborated witness, and reissued the material first as To Hell and Back in 2015 and now, this past August, as Ghosts of Hiroshima. The new title is itself a small signal of what changed: less a chronicle of one man’s journey between two cities, more a reckoning with what was left behind in both of them.

Cameron’s attachment to this material did not begin with the 2009 hospital meeting, and that is worth knowing before predicting how faithfully the film will follow the book. Pellegrino has worked with Cameron for two decades as a science consultant on both Titanic and Avatar, and appeared alongside him on camera in Ghosts of the Abyss, Cameron’s 2003 documentary exploration of the Titanic wreck. This is not a studio acquiring underlying rights from an author it has no prior relationship with. It is the continuation of one of Cameron’s longest-running working partnerships, applied now to the most difficult subject either of them has taken on. Given that history, I think it likely that whatever film eventually reaches theaters stays close to the structure and selections Pellegrino has already made in the book, rather than departing from it in the way adaptations more commonly do. That is a prediction, not a fact, since no script or treatment has been made public, but it is an informed one.

What makes this film different from every predecessor discussed in Part One is not just its access to willing, extensively documented testimony rather than classified hardware. It is that Cameron is the first director in this entire eighty-year lineage with the technical capacity to actually show what happened rather than imply it. The 1951 destruction in The Day the Earth Stood Still is almost entirely rhetorical, a warning delivered in a speech rather than a visualized threat. Threads and The Day After achieved their horror largely through restraint and practical effects, because full visual realism of mass casualty events was not available to any production budget at the time. Cameron’s demonstrated willingness to render death and devastation at overwhelming, immersive scale, on the Titanic and in Avatar’s war sequences, gives him tools none of his predecessors had, applied for the first time to material that is not fictional at all. Whether that capacity produces empathy or merely spectacle is a fair question, and probably the central artistic risk of the whole project. But it is a capability question no earlier nuclear film ever had the chance to test.

The timing matters as much as the talent. New START, the last treaty constraining American and Russian strategic arsenals, expired this February without a replacement and without a formal negotiation underway to produce one. Russia has offered, informally, to keep observing the old limits for another year; Washington has committed only to eventually negotiating something better, ideally with China included, and Beijing has already said it has no interest in joining. China’s own arsenal is growing faster than any other country’s. For the first time since the early 1970s, there is no active arms control negotiation of any kind between the states holding the overwhelming majority of the world’s roughly twelve thousand warheads. Whatever cultural work used to be shared between treaties and testimony, between diplomats managing the risk and artists keeping the public aware of why the risk mattered, is now falling almost entirely on the latter. A film of this reach, arriving into that vacuum, is not just well-timed by coincidence. It may be one of the only remaining mechanisms left for keeping nuclear risk in front of a mass public at all, now that the diplomatic machinery that used to do part of that work seems to have fallen asleep with no indication of when it will next awake.

There is also the matter of reach, which is not a small consideration set beside the artistic one but arguably the more consequential of the two. Every film discussed in Part One reached a national or, at most, a Cold War bloc audience. Dr. Strangelove did not change Soviet policy. Threads was barely seen outside Britain until decades after its broadcast. Cameron’s last three directorial features are among the highest-grossing films ever made, with a guaranteed global theatrical footprint that no prior anti-nuclear film, however good, has ever had access to. That distribution reach is not incidental to the argument I have been building across both halves of this essay. It is close to the whole point. The genre’s eighty-year problem was never a shortage of talented people willing to make the case. It was that even the best of those films provoked concern, generated headlines, and then faded, while the weapons themselves kept accumulating in the silence that followed. A film with Cameron’s reach, built on testimony this well-documented, arriving at a moment when formal arms control between the major nuclear powers has effectively ceased to exist, would have a chance none of its predecessors had: not just to provoke concern again, briefly, but to make the argument stick. That chance now depends entirely on whether the film gets made at all, and on Cameron’s own recent account, that is no longer something to assume.

Which raises a question this essay would rather ask directly than leave hanging. If Cameron’s version remains, as he himself now says, nowhere near happening, the story does not have to wait for him. The material exists independent of any single director’s schedule, and there is evidence that other filmmakers know it. A dramatization of a different rediscovered survivor’s memoir, starring the Japanese actor Takehiro Hira, is reportedly aiming for production as early as 2027. The BBC’s Atomic People, built entirely from hibakusha interviews, won a BAFTA last year. A Japanese-Canadian documentary, Okurimono, traced one hibakusha’s story through her daughter’s eyes on the festival circuit. None of these has anything like the reach this essay has argued the subject deserves. But together they are proof that the appetite and the testimony both exist, with or without Cameron, and that a director from Japan, or elsewhere in Asia, working from inside the culture that has carried this memory for eighty years rather than approaching it from outside, would have every reason to finish what Cameron may now never start.

That is the arc this two-part essay has tried to trace, from Klaatu’s spoken warning in 1951 to Yamaguchi’s testified one. Every film in between was, in its own way, an attempt to close the same gap: to make audiences feel, rather than merely know, what nuclear weapons do. None of them, however good, ever fully closed it. Whether Ghosts of Hiroshima will be the film that finally does is now genuinely uncertain. Whether some other film, made by someone else, does it instead, is not a lesser outcome. It may be the more fitting one.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

The news should have made headlines around the world: James Cameron—the director behind Terminator, Titanic, and Avatar—is adapting the story of the only dual survivor of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombings into what he calls an “uncompromising theatrical film.” Instead, the announcement barely registered. This silence reveals just how normalized we've become to living with weapons that, in minutes, could end civilization. We’ve forgotten the moments we've narrowly averted catastrophe—whether by miscalculation, mechanical failure, or sheer luck. Compounding this, the project’s timeline—unlikely to begin before 2031, when Cameron concludes his Avatar commitments—makes it feel like a distant prospect.

A Director’s Redemptive Promise

Cameron’s decision to take on nuclear warfare is more than a directorial choice—it’s a rescue mission for cinema’s most neglected cause. For nearly 80 years, filmmakers have tried to sound the alarm about nuclear weapons. Their efforts often produced influential films that momentarily stunned audiences before quietly slipping into obscurity, while the weapons themselves became more numerous and sophisticated.

This time, the Cameron-Pellegrino collaboration offers something different: a forensic approach that fuses Cameron’s cinematic mastery with Pellegrino’s archaeological precision. Centering the narrative on Japanese survivors—through first-hand accounts of Hibakusha—marks a shift in nuclear storytelling. Though extensively covered in documentaries, this survivor-centered approach sets the project apart from the start. In particular, it highlights Tsutomu Yamaguchi, the sole recognized survivor of both bombings, and Takeshi Tanaka, a schoolboy who witnessed the Nagasaki explosion.

This reframing also breaks a long-standing cultural taboo—one that derailed the Smithsonian’s 1995 exhibition of the Enola Gay and forced the resignation of NASM director Martin Harwit under congressional pressure. The political forces that once blocked such narratives now appear powerless against The Last Train from Hiroshima.1

Though Hiroshima has long overshadowed Nagasaki, this film intertwines both events. Hiroshima was unprecedented; Nagasaki, mere confirmation. By framing the story through Yamaguchi’s rare experience, Cameron brings fresh moral urgency to a subject long flattened by historical distance—and fulfills a promise made to Yamaguchi before his death.

Moreover, Cameron brings what previous nuclear filmmakers lacked: the technical ability to depict atomic destruction with chilling realism, and the commercial power to ensure global viewership. If he could make audiences grieve for an imaginary planet in Avatar, perhaps he could compel them to reckon with real-world nuclear consequences.

The Vanishing Nuclear Warning

To understand why Cameron’s project matters, we must confront cinema’s recurring failure to maintain nuclear consciousness. Film history is littered with moments of fleeting awareness—brilliant works that briefly stirred public concern, only to be forgotten as the threat endured and evolved.

The 1950s: Atomic Anxiety Takes Root

Cinema’s nuclear preoccupation began shortly after Hiroshima. The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) used science fiction to convey atomic anxiety, with Klaatu’s warning serving as one of cinema’s earliest anti-nuclear messages. In contrast, Strategic Air Command (1955) starred Jimmy Stewart as a bomber pilot, presenting nuclear deterrence as a patriotic duty. Stewart’s real-life credentials as a WWII pilot gave the film weight, even as it celebrated Cold War readiness.

Meanwhile, Godzilla (1954) became Japan’s iconic nuclear parable—a monster born of atomic horror. It marked a trend: cinema’s most potent nuclear warnings often came cloaked in genre storytelling.

The 1960s: Satire and Sobriety

The Cuban Missile Crisis gave rise to two of cinema’s greatest nuclear films. Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove (1964) turned nuclear madness into absurdist comedy, while Fail-Safe (also 1964) portrayed a chillingly realistic scenario of accidental Armageddon. These contrasting masterpieces became the genre’s twin pillars: satire versus stark realism.

On the Beach (1959), though earlier, prefigured the decade’s mood, depicting a doomed humanity awaiting radiation’s slow spread with heartbreaking melancholy.

The 1970s: Nuclear Silence

Despite détente and arms control, the 1970s saw few notable nuclear films. With tensions seemingly easing, cinema turned away—even as nuclear arsenals quietly grew. This pattern would repeat: as fear receded, so too did cultural focus.

The 1980s: A Second Great Wave

The Reagan-era buildup reignited cinematic warnings. The Day After (1983) shocked audiences—and even Reagan himself—with its realistic portrayal of nuclear devastation in the American heartland. That same year, WarGames turned thermonuclear war into a game, while Testament depicted a California family's slow post-nuclear decline.

In Britain, Threads (1984) pushed realism to the extreme, showing a complete societal collapse. When the Wind Blows(1986), a haunting animated feature, offered a quiet, devastating portrait of an elderly couple’s futile preparations for nuclear attack.2

The 1990s and Beyond: The Great Forgetting

With the Cold War’s end came the illusion that nuclear danger had passed. Hollywood moved on. Though nuclear stockpiles persisted and proliferated, cinema abandoned the subject.

Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer (2023) reignited interest—but it’s not an anti-nuclear film. Its focus is the inquiry into Oppenheimer’s loyalty, leaving the human cost of the bomb viewed exclusively through Oppenheimer’s conflicted mind.

The Pattern of Forgetting

The pattern is clear: nuclear films provoke concern, then fade. Dr. Strangelove didn’t halt proliferation. The Day After didn’t stop the arms race. Threads didn’t trigger disarmament.

Repeated cinematic depictions may have desensitized us. Nuclear war has become a trope—just another genre scenario. Even great films fail to sustain public attention.

Cameron’s Opportunity—and Challenge

Ghosts of Hiroshima is not Cameron’s first engagement with Pellegrino’s work. In 2010, Pellegrino published The Last Train from Hiroshima, drawing from survivor interviews—especially Tsutomu Yamaguchi’s. Cameron immediately optioned the book for film adaptation.

But the project was derailed by a hoax. Joseph Fuoco, a man claiming to have flown on one of the Hiroshima mission B-29s, had fabricated his account. His deception went unnoticed until the family of the actual flight engineer, James Corliss, uncovered it. Pellegrino, trusting Fuoco’s veteran status and forged documents, incorporated his story. The error led to public backlash, the book’s withdrawal, and Cameron’s decision to pause the film.

Pellegrino returned to the survivors, fact-checked his work, and reissued the book—first as To Hell and Back (2015), and now as Ghosts of Hiroshima (2025). Cameron, who met Yamaguchi shortly before his death, has once again committed to telling this story—without compromise.

Fuoco’s lie left damage, but also a lesson: in historical nonfiction, the smallest falsehood can undermine everything.3 Pellegrino’s revised work reflects a new rigor, combining survivor voices with scientific analysis and forensic archaeology.4

A Survivor’s Eye View

Cameron’s adaptation promises something unprecedented: a feature-length film told from a survivor’s perspective. While documentaries and films like Hiroshima Mon Amour have specifically addressed the subject, none have centered on the lived experience of someone who endured both bombings.5 This film will.

Cameron’s tools—state-of-the-art visual effects, emotional storytelling, and global reach—give him a rare opportunity. Can photorealistic depictions of nuclear devastation reawaken our capacity for fear and empathy? Or will they merely entertain?

The inclusion of stories like Tanaka’s—a schoolboy witnessing the Nagasaki blast—emphasizes human suffering over military spectacle. This could mark a turning point in nuclear cinema, one where the victims take center stage.6

Cinema’s Last Warning?

Cameron’s challenge is monumental: how to sustain nuclear awareness in a world that’s tuned it out. Yet the timing may be right. With tensions rising, arms control collapsing, and new nuclear states emerging, audiences might finally be ready to remember.

Whether Ghosts of Hiroshima becomes nuclear cinema’s redemption or its elegy remains to be seen. But with Cameron’s vision and Pellegrino’s testimony-driven narrative, it may be our last chance to remember what we’ve worked so hard to forget.

Conclusion: The Stakes of Nuclear Cinema

As Nolan’s Oppenheimer examined the making of the bomb, Cameron’s project will confront its consequences. Rooted in survivor accounts, backed by scientific inquiry, and directed with unmatched cinematic power, Ghosts of Hiroshima aims to reframe the bomb’s legacy for a new generation.

Eighty years after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, nuclear weapons remain civilization’s gravest threat. They’ve outlasted the Cold War, evolved through modern geopolitics, and slipped from public memory.7

Cinema tried to warn us—from Godzilla to Threads—but each warning faded. The bombs remain. Perhaps it’s time we stopped forgetting them.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

This piece was first published last year on the 80th anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. It’s been updated and reproduced here.

Notes:

In the most extraordinary twist of fate, roughly one hundred and sixty-five people survived the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, then traveled to Nagasaki in time to survive its destruction three days later.

In August 1945, as World War II was drawing to a close, Hiroshima and Nagasaki were both surviving industrial engines of Japan’s wartime production, and technical elites and engineers routinely traveled between the two cities on the newly restored rail lines. To the northeast, American bombers had already firebombed Japanese cities, including the capital, Tokyo, killing more civilians in a single night than would die immediately in either atomic bombing. It is an extraordinary convergence of fate, geography, and corporate scheduling that roughly 165 people came to experience both atomic explosions by being in Hiroshima on August 6th and returning home to Nagasaki in time to survive the second bomb three days later, on August 9th. The survivors of the atomic bombings were collectively named hibakusha by the Japanese, and the tiny fraction who were exposed to both bombings were called nijū hibakusha, or dual survivors. The most famous of these was Tsutomu Yamaguchi, an engineer who survived the previously untested, uranium-based weapon dropped on Hiroshima, known as Little Boy, and then the plutonium-based weapon dropped on Nagasaki, known as Fat Man, and tested weeks earlier in the New Mexico desert. Yamaguchi’s story was told at length in Charles Pellegrino’s book The Last Train from Hiroshima, and Pellegrino has spent two decades working alongside the film director James Cameron to develop a film based on Yamaguchi’s story. The survivors of either or both explosions endured not only unimaginable physical injuries but decades of prejudice and ostracism within their own country, a burden Yamaguchi carried alongside everyone else. His story has become the central subject of a much-discussed but now uncertain Cameron movie project, Ghosts of Hiroshima.

Cameron’s stated vision for the film would close the loop on the entire cinematic history of movies made to depict the horror of nuclear war. Rather than focusing on political bureaucracy or science fiction, Cameron has committed to a profoundly human story confined strictly to the three days of the two bombings and their immediate aftermath. Cameron has said publicly that he wants to do for the reality of atomic warfare what Saving Private Ryan did for D-Day: strip away the cinematic distance and show the unsparing historical truth. If made as described, it would serve as the definitive bookend to the genre this essay surveys below.

The Vanishing Warning

Eighty-one years after Trinity, cinema has tried, over and over, to make the public feel what physicists understood in an instant: that a single weapon could destroy an entire city in a few seconds, and that the injuries these weapons inflict carry through survivors and their descendants for generations, while also touching all life on Earth.

More than thirty films across eight decades have taken nuclear war as a subject, not a backdrop, and not one of them has ever argued that the world would be better off with more of these weapons. That consistency is not an accident of taste. It is closer to a natural experiment, run across generations of directors working in different countries, different genres, and different political climates, all arriving at the same conclusion independently. The interesting question is not why filmmakers kept warning us of the dangers of nuclear war. It is why the warnings kept failing to stick, and why, of the handful that did stick, several of the people who made them were treated by their own governments as the threat.

The first response to the bomb, oddly, was not warning at all but displacement. Robert Wise’s The Day the Earth Stood Still, released in 1951, is the rare early exception that named the danger directly rather than hiding it inside metaphor: an alien visitor arrives with an invincible robot to warn humanity that its newly acquired capacity for nuclear destruction now threatens a wider galactic order, and that the planet will be dealt with accordingly if it cannot restrain itself. Most of what followed in the 1950s took the opposite approach. Godzilla, released in Japan in 1954, is frequently remembered abroad as a monster movie with a radiation gimmick, but it emerged directly out of the Castle Bravo hydrogen bomb test earlier that year, whose fallout killed a Japanese fisherman aboard a boat named Lucky Dragon and set off a domestic panic over contaminated tuna. Under the terms of the Allied Occupation, open discussion of the human cost Japan itself had suffered from the American bombings was suppressed until 1952. Godzilla let a nation process a memory it was not permitted to discuss directly by processing it as a monster instead. This pattern, warning smuggled inside allegory because direct depiction was politically unavailable, recurs throughout the genre’s first decade and explains why so much of the era’s most serious nuclear content shows up in films that look, on the surface, like horror B-movies.

This concentration of serious nuclear filmmaking in a small handful of countries is itself worth pausing on, because it was not universal. The genre clustered almost entirely in the nations with the most direct stake in the weapon and, not coincidentally, film industries large enough to finance disaster-scale production: the United States and Britain, which held or hosted the weapons and had wealthy, largely uncensored film markets, and Japan, the only nation that had actually been bombed. Elsewhere, the subject was either politically forbidden or simply never treated as urgent. In the Soviet Union, nuclear holocaust was an enforced “atomic taboo” under Goskino censorship, which regarded any depiction of societal collapse as ideologically defeatist; the one major exception, Konstantin Lopushansky’s Dead Man’s Letters, only got made in 1986 under the early loosening of Gorbachev’s glasnost, and even then received just seven authorized prints, screened in two Moscow theaters. France, meanwhile, was itself an independent nuclear power with its own force de frappe, and produced comparatively little direct anti-nuclear cinema; Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959), the most frequently cited “foreign” title in this genre, is really a French New Wave meditation on memory and desire that uses the bombing as its backdrop rather than an argument about weapons policy, closer in spirit to the displacement films of the 1950s than to Threads or On the Beach. India and China, the two other major nuclear-armed states, took the subject on directly and repeatedly, but ran the reel in the opposite direction: Roaring Across the Horizon (1999) in China and a cluster of Indian films including Parmanu: The Story of Pokhran (2018) both dramatize their countries’ acquisition of the bomb as a story of national pride and technical triumph rather than a warning about its consequences, the inverse of the Anglo-American-Japanese tradition surveyed here. The pattern holds up across all five cases: the film industries that engaged this subject directly were, overwhelmingly, the ones whose own governments held the weapons or had survived them, and what they chose to say about it depended heavily on which side of that experience they were on.

But let’s start with the case that most people today would not guess belongs in this story at all. In 1955, Jimmy Stewart, a decorated World War II bomber pilot and Air Force Reserve colonel, teamed up with his friend General Curtis LeMay, head of the Strategic Air Command, to make Strategic Air Command, a film explicitly designed to build public and congressional support for LeMay’s nuclear bomber fleet. It was not a failure. It was the sixth highest-grossing film of 1955, and its release reportedly drove a measurable increase in Air Force enlistments. Stewart’s authenticity as a real bomber pilot gave the propaganda a credibility no actor could fake. And yet today, ask almost anyone with a passing interest in film history, and they will be startled to learn that Stewart, of all people, spent his own reputation promoting the bomber force behind American nuclear deterrence. The film that succeeded completely has been erased from cultural memory, while the films that warned against the weapons Stewart was selling are the ones we still watch.

That inversion is the core of this essay. The films that have lasted are not the ones that told audiences what their governments wanted them to hear. They are the ones that told audiences what their governments did not want said at all, and in several cases, the state actively tried to stop them. Stanley Kramer, who in 1959 directed On the Beach, adapted from Nevil Shute’s novel about a world already destroyed by nuclear war, its last survivors in Australia waiting for a lethal radioactive cloud to reach them. Kramer had spent the 1950s making socially conscious films that drew accusations from the Hollywood right of providing aid and comfort to America’s communist adversaries. When he asked the US military for cooperation on the production, the response he got back specified that any assistance would require changes to make clear the world could not actually be destroyed, and that if it were, communists should be understood to be at fault. Kramer refused those terms and shot without American military assets at all, borrowing an aircraft carrier and a submarine from the Australian government instead. The resulting film became one of the most psychologically potent nuclear films of its decade and is credited with helping to ignite the anti-nuclear debate of the 1960s. The government’s refusal to help did not stop the film. It just meant Kramer made it without them, and without their blessing.

Five years later, Stanley Kubrick ran into the same wall and solved it the same way. For Dr. Strangelove, Kubrick wanted to recreate the interior of a B-52 bomber cockpit, then a state-of-the-art aircraft whose interior was effectively off-limits to a film crew. The Air Force offered no cooperation whatsoever. Kubrick’s production designer, Ken Adam, built the set from technical manuals and a single available photograph, extrapolating the geometry of the rest of the cockpit from what could be inferred about the aircraft’s fuselage. When American airmen were eventually shown the finished set, they reportedly said it was correct in every detail, down to a small black box that had no business being guessable from public information, and Kubrick was reportedly so nervous about how close his team had come to classified reality that he worried about the consequences. Daniel Ellsberg, who had just completed a classified RAND study on the exact command-and-control failures the film dramatizes, saw it in theaters and called it essentially a documentary.

Released the same year, Sidney Lumet’s Fail-Safe played the identical premise completely straight rather than as satire, and suffered for the coincidence: Kubrick sued over the similarity, delayed its release until after his own film opened, and Fail-Safe became a box office casualty of timing rather than quality. Between them, the two films became the twin pillars of Cold War nuclear satire and realism, and neither needed the Pentagon’s permission to tell its story.

The pattern holds outside the United States, too. Peter Watkins made The War Game in 1965 for the BBC as a faux-documentary depicting a nuclear strike on Britain with unflinching, clinical detail. The BBC’s own commissioners found it too disturbing to broadcast and refused to allow it to air for the better part of two decades, a decision now generally regarded as one of the more embarrassing acts of institutional self-censorship in British broadcasting history. It’s telling that this period was also notable for massive anti-nuclear demonstrations and popular pressure for Britain to abandon nuclear weapons even as it grew more dependent on American-built submarine-launched missiles; as a public corporation, the BBC likely felt government pressure not to allow the program to air on national television. Eventually released theatrically, The War Game won the Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature in 1967 despite never having aired on television at all, and was not broadcast until 1985, twenty years after it was made.

The clearest case of state hostility backfiring belongs to a much shorter film. In 1982, a young Canadian filmmaker named Terre Nash recorded a speech by the physician and anti-nuclear activist Helen Caldicott, delivered near a major American Strategic Air Command base, and released it as If You Love This Planet. The Reagan administration’s Department of Justice formally labeled it foreign political propaganda, a designation intended to suppress its distribution by requiring theaters and universities to disclose the label before screening it. The effect was the opposite of what the Justice Department intended: the controversy generated a wave of publicity no ordinary short documentary could have earned on its own, and the film went on to win the Academy Award for Best Documentary Short. In her acceptance speech, Nash thanked the Justice Department for its role in promoting the film. It remains one of the only instances in this survey where an attempt at government suppression is on record as having visibly failed in real time, in front of the very audience it was trying to keep the film from reaching.

The 1980s produced the genre’s second and largest wave, driven by the reescalation of Cold War tension under President Reagan and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. The Day After aired on ABC in November 1983 and was watched by nearly a hundred million Americans, well over a third of the country’s population at the time. Reagan himself watched it at Camp David and wrote in his diary that it left him greatly depressed, a reaction some historians have connected to his subsequent willingness to pursue arms control negotiations with the Soviet Union. Threads, made the following year for the BBC and set in Sheffield, went considerably further than The Day After was permitted to, in unrelenting, undramatized detail, ending with survivors who could barely speak coherent English. Testament told the same story at a quieter register, following a Bay Area family in a town untouched by the blast itself but slowly destroyed by fallout, rationing, and the absence of everyone who commuted into the city that morning. WarGames turned the same anxiety into a teenage hacker thriller, and When the Wind Blows rendered it as an animated film, scored by David Bowie and Roger Waters, ending with an elderly English couple cheerfully climbing into their own body bags.

Between the two great waves sits a quieter stretch worth noting precisely because it breaks the pattern rather than fitting it. Through most of the 1970s, as détente eased public anxiety even while stockpiles on both sides kept growing, cinema largely lost interest in the subject. It is a useful data point on its own: cultural attention to the danger tracked the public mood far more closely than it tracked the actual state of the arsenals, which never stopped expanding. The lesson repeats on the other side of the 1980s wave. With the Cold War’s end, the genre mostly stopped again, this time out of a feeling that the emergency had passed, even though stockpiles, though reduced, remained far from eliminated and the underlying risk had not disappeared. What nuclear-themed filmmaking survived through the 1990s and 2000s largely became thriller mechanics rather than moral reckoning: The Hunt for Red October, Crimson Tide, The Sum of All Fears. The weapon became a plot engine rather than a subject in its own right, useful for generating tension in a submarine or a briefcase but no longer treated as something the audience needed to reckon with on its own terms.

Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer, released in 2023 to enormous commercial and critical success, is often folded into lists of great nuclear films, and I want to say plainly here that I do not think it belongs in that category, at least not in the sense the other films in this essay do. Oppenheimer is an inquiry into one man’s loyalty, conscience, and psychological unraveling. It is a film about the weapon’s maker, filtered almost entirely through his own anxious interiority, not a film about the weapon’s consequences for the people who were not in the room. That is a legitimate and well-executed subject. It is a different subject.

What almost none of these films had in common with each other, on the surface, is genre, nationality, or tone. What they had in common, underneath, is that a striking number of the directors who made them were serious, well-recognized talents who took on a subject with no obvious commercial upside and, in several notable cases, active institutional hostility. Christopher Nolan won the Academy Award for Best Director for Oppenheimer. James Cameron won it for Titanic. Robert Wise, who directed The Day the Earth Stood Still in 1951, would go on to win Best Director twice, for West Side Story and The Sound of Music. Kubrick, despite a career built substantially around films that unsettled the establishment, never won a competitive Oscar for directing at all; his only competitive win was for visual effects, on 2001: A Space Odyssey. Sidney Lumet and Stanley Kramer never won a competitive directing Oscar either, receiving only honorary awards decades later, in recognition, more or less, of careers the Academy had declined to reward at the time. These were not journeymen slumming in a disreputable genre. They were, disproportionately, some of the most serious filmmaking talent of their eras, returning again and again to a subject that offered them little except the certainty that a government somewhere would rather they had not made the film at all.

I got a small, unexpected confirmation of how deep this legacy runs during a visit to Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, where I was offered a tour of a decommissioned B-52. I made an offhand remark to our guide, a B-52 navigator, that the cockpit looked just like the one in Dr. Strangelove. He did not let the comment pass as a joke. Instead, he pointed out, instrument by instrument, exactly how accurate Kubrick’s reconstruction had been, down to the placement of the encryption decoder. When I asked whether he had watched the film, he said it was a favorite among B-52 crews, and that they had all seen it many times. Sixty years after Kubrick built that cockpit from a single photograph and a stack of technical manuals, without a shred of Air Force cooperation, the people who actually fly the aircraft he was satirizing have folded his film into their own institutional folklore. It is hard to think of a cleaner illustration of how thoroughly the fiction outlasted the establishment that tried to keep it from being made accurately in the first place.

This is where the second half of this essay picks up, because the film now in development, James Cameron’s Ghosts of Hiroshima, was meant to break this pattern in a way none of its predecessors could, needing no state’s permission because its raw material is testimony rather than classified hardware. Whether it will still be the film to do that, however, is now considerably less certain than it looked even a few months ago.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Related reading:

On the morning of Wednesday, July 29, in a Senate hearing room on Capitol Hill, a Capitol Police officer was asked by the committee chair, Senator Rand Paul (R-KY), to remove the lawyer of the person called to testify for attempting to speak on his client’s behalf. Before the start of the meeting, he had been prevented from being seated next to his client to allow for consultation during questioning, which is usually taken as a right. The client was an eighty-five-year-old physician and former director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases for thirty-eight years. Anthony Fauci had advised seven presidents of both parties, and received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from George W. Bush for building the program credited with saving twenty-six million lives from AIDS. Over the next several hours, Fauci invoked his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination 111 times. Senator Moreno (R-OH) demanded to know, from the dais, “Who the fuck do you think you were?” Senator Paul, who has spent the past five years publicly promising that this witness would end up, in his own words, behind bars — closed the proceedings by announcing that the committee would vote within the week to hold the witness in contempt of Congress. The contempt, as the chairman framed it, consisted of exercising a constitutional right.

The United States Senate has conducted hearings like this before. It conducted them for about seven years, roughly 1947 to 1954, and it has spent the seventy years since apologizing for them — in Supreme Court opinions, in a censure resolution, in the quiet abolition of the committees that held them, and in formal acts of institutional contrition arriving as late as December 2022, when the government finally vacated its verdict posthumously on J. Robert Oppenheimer, sixty-eight years after rendering it.

But the hearing was not an aberration, and treating it as one mistakes the final stage of a worn congressional process for the whole of it. What played out in that hearing room is the terminal form of a campaign against American science and scientists that has been underway since January 2025 and has proceeded in a recognizable sequence: first the decapitation of the institutions, then the mass dismissal of the subject matter experts, then the conversion of the funding architecture into something more recognizable to a venture portfolio manager than a scientist, and now — the last stage, the one that requires all the others to come first — the inquisition of individual scientists against whom the administration holds publicly declared grudges. Each stage made the next one possible. You cannot subpoena a man before a committee determined to imprison him until you have first ensured that no institution remains with the standing to defend him. This article examines that sequence, and the precedent for its final stage, including how it ended.

I. The Institutions

Begin with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, because what happened there in the summer of 2025 established the template.

In June of that year, Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. dismissed all seventeen members of the Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices — the body of outside scientists that has, since 1964, reviewed the evidence behind the nation’s vaccine schedules — and replaced them with his personal choices, several of them public opponents of the vaccines the committee exists to evaluate. Two months later, he fired the CDC’s director, Susan Monarez, twenty-nine days after the Senate had confirmed her. Monarez later testified, under oath, to what had passed between them. The Secretary, she said, directed her to commit in advance to approving every ACIP recommendation, regardless of the scientific evidence. He also directed her to dismiss career scientists at the agency. She refused both instructions, and she believes — as does everyone who has examined the sequence — that this refusal is why she was fired. Her senior leadership resigned in protest within hours, one of them writing that the agency’s scientists had been reduced to rubber stamps.

Attend to the precise shape of the demand, because it recurs throughout this story. Monarez was not asked to reach a different scientific conclusion. She was asked to commit to conclusions in advance — to certify findings that had not yet been made, regardless of what the evidence would show. Her own description of the mechanism cannot be improved upon: once trusted experts are removed, and advisory bodies are stacked, the results are predetermined. “That is not reform”, she wrote. “It is sabotage.”

The Environmental Protection Agency ran the same operation but on a grander scale. In July 2025, the agency announced the elimination of its Office of Research and Development — its scientific research arm, home to 1,540 chemists, biologists, toxicologists, and engineers whose work underpinned every air quality standard, every drinking water assessment, every chemical safety finding the agency has issued for two generations. As many as 1,155 of those scientists were laid off. The agency’s total workforce fell by nearly a quarter in a single year. The remnant of the research function was relocated into a new office housed — and this detail is the point — within the office of the Administrator himself, where the scientists who survived the reduction now conduct their research under the direct supervision of a political appointee. Members of Congress noted that the Office of Research and Development is established in statute, and that its elimination by executive action is therefore of doubtful legality. The elimination proceeded anyway.

Across the agencies that touch climate and the environment — EPA, NOAA, the Department of the Interior, the research services of the Department of Agriculture — the pattern repeated with local variations: thousands of working scientists dismissed without cause, not for misconduct, not for poor performance, but because the subject of their expertise had become politically inconvenient. No administration in American history has removed scientific personnel from the federal government on anything approaching this scale.

It is worth stating plainly what the firings were not. They were not a policy disagreement. Administrations disagree with their scientists constantly; that friction is ordinary and even healthy. This was the removal of the capacity to generate the disagreement.

II. The Portfolio

If the preceding section established what was removed, the White House has now published, in its own name, a description of what replaces it.

On July 21 of this year, the Office of Science and Technology Policy (OSTP) released a 123-page report to the President titled Science: A New Golden Age. The White House presents it as the first comprehensive rethinking of the American scientific enterprise since Vannevar Bush’s 1945 report that created the postwar architecture of federally funded research, including the National Science Foundation itself. The comparison is the administration’s own, and it deserves to be taken seriously, because the new report is indeed the antimatter twin of the original written by the man who effectively invented the role of presidential science advisor.

Bush’s argument in 1945 was precise: there is a category of research — basic, curiosity-driven, without foreseeable application — that private capital will never fund, because its returns are too distant, too diffuse, and too uncertain to entertain the risk. Penicillin, radar, and the atomic bomb had all grown from exactly such work. The federal government must therefore fund what the market cannot see or will not risk, and must do so through institutions insulated from political direction, else the seed corn of the next generation’s technology will never be planted. Every transformative American technology of the past eighty years — the transistor, the laser, the Internet, recombinant DNA, GPS, mRNA vaccines — validates the thesis, and most of them began as federally funded basic research that venture capital does not touch.

The new OSTP report inverts the thesis at its foundation. Its central recommendation is that federal research agencies should operate less like grant administrators and more like venture investors — prioritizing investable technologies with identifiable paths to commercial or strategic return: artificial intelligence, quantum computing, fusion demonstration, next-generation semiconductors. The report’s author and OSTP Director Michael Kratsios came to the post from Thiel Capital and Scale AI, and the document reads as what it is: the translation of a Silicon Valley investment term sheet into national science policy. Accompanying it is a Fiscal Year 2028 R&D Priorities Memorandum, co-signed by Kratsios and OMB Director Russell Vought, converting the recommendations into binding directives; every federal research agency must submit an implementation plan within ninety days.

The claim that federal science funding should behave like venture capital can be tested against the historical record, because we know what the venture model would have declined to fund. Three examples are sufficient.

The first I personally observed from inside. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, I served as a Principal Investigator at the National Science Foundation during the transition of the NSFNET backbone to commercial operation. There was no investable proposition in that network prior. There was no business model, no addressable market, no revenue projection — the Acceptable Use Policy explicitly prohibited carrying commercial traffic, and the private carriers of the day had examined packet switching and concluded there was no money in it. At the time of the transition, there were fewer than half a dozen independent commercial Internet service providers. What existed was a government-funded academic network built on protocols originally developed under federal defense research contracts, sustained for two decades by agencies that could not have told you what it was for. The commercial Internet did not emerge from private capital recognizing an opportunity; it emerged when the government handed over an asset that private capital had previously declined to build. Under the model the OSTP now proposes, there would have been no NSFNET to hand over, and the report’s authors would today be investing in something else entirely.

The second is the Human Genome Project. The public project’s defining decision was the Bermuda Principles of 1996 — sequence data released to the world within twenty-four hours, unpatented and unrestricted. The private competitor, Celera, pursued the opposite: proprietary sequence, subscription access, and patent claims on thousands of genes. Had the venture model prevailed, the human genome would exist today as privately owned fragments behind licensing agreements, and the entire subsequent field — genome-wide association studies, cancer genomics, the pharmacogenomics that now guides ordinary prescribing — would have been built, if at all, on data no one else could see. The advances of the last twenty years came from the free release, not despite it.

The third is the argument’s own frame. The administration justifies this restructuring by invoking competition with China. But China is not doing what the OSTP proposes. It is doing what Vannevar Bush proposed. Chinese R&D reached roughly $551 billion in 2025, an 8.1 percent increase in a single year, with the 2026–2030 plan projecting average annual increases of at least 7 percent and its national science foundation directing the large majority of its budget to basic research. That is also, in its own idiom, what Germany, Japan, South Korea, and the European Union are doing. The United States is the only advanced industrial economy currently attempting to reverse the model, and it is the one that invented it.

There is a nuance here that strengthens rather than weakens the point. America still leads in basic research specifically — roughly 0.5 percent of GDP against China’s 0.19 percent. But American basic research intensity has been flat for years while China’s rises steadily. The one category in which the United States retains a decisive lead is precisely the category this administration proposes to stop funding, and the trend lines were already converging before it started.

What the report does not mention, anywhere in its 123 pages, is the administration’s own budget proposal to cut the National Science Foundation by roughly half. This is not an oversight. Within the report’s own logic, there is nothing to explain, because an agency that funds research the market cannot see is, by definition, holding a portfolio of bad investments. The cut is not in tension with the philosophy. It is the philosophy.

I made the argument some weeks ago, in the first piece of this series, that the pattern of appointments and dismissals revealed an administration interested in capital rather than research. I offered it then as an inference. It is no longer an inference. It is the White House’s stated position, signed by its science advisor and its budget director.

The historical irony writes itself, but one instance of it should be stated. Vannevar Bush titled his report Science, the Endless Frontier because he was arguing against exactly this — against the assumption that the frontier was closed and the remaining task was to develop the territory already mapped. Every venture portfolio is, by construction, a bet on the territory already mapped: the investable is the visible. The endless frontier has been formally renamed a golden age, and the difference between the two metaphors is the whole of the matter. A frontier is where you go before anyone knows what is there. A golden age is what you declare when you have decided to stop looking.

III. The Community

What was done to the National Science Foundation I described at length last month, and will not repeat here beyond its place in the sequence. The National Science Board — the body that exists to give Congress independent warning about exactly the competition now invoked to justify the cuts — was fired before it could issue one. Peer review was cut from three reviewers to two. A staff of seventeen hundred was reduced by more than a third, so that even fully funded grants sit unprocessed. Congress has since restored much of the money, more responsibly than many expected, though the money was never the thing that was destroyed.

Its place in the sequence is this. The NSF is not merely a funding agency; it is the institution through which American science constitutes itself as a community — the mechanism by which scientists at four hundred universities evaluate each other’s work, train each other’s students, and acquire the standing to speak with one voice when one of their own is attacked. A dispersed, demoralized, and precarious research community does not write open letters. It does not fill hearing rooms.

When the House Un-American Activities Committee named physicist Edward Condon, director of the National Bureau of Standards, “one of the weakest links in our atomic security” in March 1948, the community closed around him within weeks. Albert Einstein and Harold Urey defended him publicly. The entire Harvard physics department wrote to the President on his behalf, along with numerous professional organizations. The Emergency Committee of Atomic Scientists held a dinner in his honor that April with nine Nobel laureates among its sponsors. President Truman denounced the committee from a stage at the AAAS annual meeting with Condon seated beside him, calling its work the most un-American thing the country had to contend with.

Hold that thought in mind. We will need it again at the close.

IV. The Hearing

We return to the room where counsel to the witness was first not allowed to speak on behalf of his client and then ejected before proceedings began.

The formal charge against Anthony Fauci is that he lied to Congress about American funding of gain-of-function research at the Wuhan Institute of Virology. The charge has been investigated for five years and has produced no prosecution, which is why the Chairman of the Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee had to subpoena a man he had already, repeatedly and publicly, promised to put in prison. Fauci said so in his opening statement, and then said nothing else. The sole purpose of the proceeding, he told the committee, was to get him to say something — anything — that could vindicate the chairman’s pledge that he end up behind bars. Any reasonable person following the obsession, he added, would reach the same conclusion. On his lawyers’ advice, he invoked the Fifth Amendment. One hundred and eleven times.

Consider what the committee then argued, because the argument is a closed circle and the circle is the whole design.

Senator Paul’s position is that the Fifth Amendment does not attach, because President Biden’s preemptive pardon eliminated any risk of prosecution — no jeopardy, no privilege, therefore contempt. Chairman Comer of House Oversight argued the opposite on the same afternoon: that Fauci pleaded the Fifth precisely because he knows the pardon is legally vulnerable, having been executed by autopen. President Trump has said the pardon could be challenged if it can be shown that Biden did not know what was signed. Set these positions side by side. If the pardon is valid, Fauci has no privilege and must be held in contempt. If the pardon is invalid, he is exposed to prosecution. There is no third position, and there is no configuration of facts in which he is left alone. That is not a legal theory. It is a mechanism with two inputs and one output, and the output was announced five years before the hearing convened.

The machinery is not new. In 1954, Congress confronted precisely this obstacle — witnesses before the loyalty committees invoking the Fifth, and no lawful way to compel them — and solved it by statute. The Immunity Act of 1954 allowed Congress to strip the privilege by granting formal immunity through a federal court, and the Supreme Court upheld it two years later. The mechanism survives today in federal law. Senator Paul has not used it, and will not, because a genuine grant of immunity is the one thing that would make Fauci answer and the one thing that would foreclose prosecuting him afterward. What is being attempted instead is compulsion without immunity: treat a pardon nobody has tested in court as though it were an immunity order, then punish the witness for declining to accept the substitution. Meanwhile the President’s allies work to dissolve the pardon that supposedly makes the privilege unnecessary.

The law, as it happens, is not close. No federal court has invalidated any of Biden’s pardons, and constitutional scholars are broadly agreed that the operative question is whether the President authorized the document, not whether an autopen was used to sign it. The Fifth Amendment turns on whether a witness faces a realistic threat of prosecution, and specialists watching this hearing have called that threat highly plausible — for the obvious reason that the committee’s own chairman has spent half a decade demanding it. Senator Paul manufactured the apprehension that validates the privilege he now proposes to punish. The contempt resolution must ordinarily clear the full Senate and survive a sixty-vote threshold, which it will not. This is not an oversight in the plan. The citation is the product. It always was.

We have a name for what this is, and the name is not a rhetorical flourish. It is the fourth and final stage of the sequence this piece has been describing, and it has a lineage that runs directly through the scientists of the loyalty era.

Edward Condon was cleared by the Commerce Department on February 24, 1948. Six days later, the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) pronounced him one of the weakest links in American atomic security. He was never charged with anything. His clearance was reviewed and reinstated and challenged again, over and over, until he left government in 1951; three years after that, the Navy revoked it once more, with Richard Nixon hinting on the campaign trail that he had a hand in it. J. Robert Oppenheimer lost his clearance in 1954 in a proceeding that heard no evidence of disloyalty and reached its conclusion regardless; the Department of Energy posthumously vacated its decision in December 2022, sixty-eight years later. Qian Xuesen, co-founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, was stripped of his clearance on suspicion, detained, and deported to China in 1955 — whereupon he went on to support the ballistic missile development program of the People’s Republic of China. Wen Ho Lee was held in solitary confinement for nine months on charges that collapsed, and the federal judge who released him in 2000 apologized to him from the bench for what the government had done. The China Initiative prosecutions of this decade have mostly collapsed in much the same way, after the same career damage.

The pattern is consistent enough to be predictive. In each case, the accusation is damage to national security. In each case, the evidence is insufficient to charge, which is why the proceeding is administrative or congressional rather than criminal. In each case, the punishment is the process itself. And in each case the institution responsible eventually says so — in a court opinion, a judicial apology, a vacatur — long after the career has ended and, twice now, after the scientist has long since died.

V. Endgame

The politicization of science is among the most troubling legacies of the COVID-19 pandemic. Scientific conclusions should be challenged relentlessly — but they must be challenged with scientific evidence, not with political rhetoric thinly disguised as such. The central weakness of the attacks on Dr. Anthony Fauci is not just who is making them, but that on questions of virology, epidemiology, and vaccine science their conclusions are not supported by the mainstream body of scientific evidence accumulated over the past six years internationally.

Anthony Fauci has become less the object of these attacks than their symbol. By personalizing a global pandemic in one individual, political opponents have created a convenient narrative in which every unpopular consequence — school closures, economic disruption, vaccine mandates, and public frustration — can be attributed to a single public servant. It is an appealing political story because it ignores the reality that pandemic policy emerged from thousands of decisions made by governments, public health agencies, hospitals, universities, and international organizations operating under extraordinary uncertainty. Fauci advised; he did not govern.

History will undoubtedly revise aspects of the pandemic response. Some recommendations will prove to have been overly cautious, others insufficiently cautious, and many simply the best judgments that could be made with incomplete information available at the time. That is not a failure of science; it is precisely how science progresses. What would represent a profound failure is to redefine scientific uncertainty as misconduct and evolving advice as evidence of criminality.

The broader danger extends far beyond one individual. When scientists become targets because their evidence conflicts with the political priorities of the day, the message is unmistakable. Expertise becomes conditional upon ideological conformity. Scientific advice is judged not by the quality of the data but by whether it supports the prevailing political narrative. Once that principle is accepted, no field of science remains insulated from political interference.

It is in this sense that Fauci is almost incidental. The issue is not ultimately Anthony Fauci. It is whether scientists who provide evidence-based advice during a national emergency can later be subjected to campaigns of personal vilification and retrospective political prosecution whenever governments or public opinion seek someone to blame. A society that punishes scientists for reaching evidence-based conclusions that later become politically inconvenient risks discouraging precisely the independent expertise upon which future public crises will depend.

Which brings us to the silence.

In the days since the hearing, there has been no shortage of commentary — opinion columns across the spectrum, some of it sympathetic, some of it the predictable settling of old scores. What there has not been is a statement from the institutions of American science. No joint letter from the learned societies. No public defense from the academies. Nothing resembling what the physicists produced within weeks in 1948.

It would be easy, and wrong, to read that silence as indifference. The more probable explanation is the one this article has been documenting from its first section. Universities hold federal grants. Professional societies are composed of members who hold federal grants. Academies, journals, and research institutions all depend, directly or indirectly, on appropriations and awards that this administration has already demonstrated it will withdraw from those who displease it. An institution weighing whether to defend Anthony Fauci is not weighing a matter of principle in the abstract; it is weighing that principle against the funding of its laboratories and the visas of its students, in the knowledge that retribution against critics is not a hypothetical but a documented practice. Silence, under those conditions, is not apathy. It is a rational calculation made under duress — which is precisely what the first three stages of this sequence were designed to produce. The point of dismantling the institutions was never only to stop the research. It was to ensure that when the fourth stage arrived, nobody would be in a position to put up resistance.

Science advances through evidence, replication, criticism, and revision. It does not advance through insinuation, selective use of data, or public tribunals designed to reinforce predetermined conclusions. The treatment of Anthony Fauci will ultimately be remembered not as a referendum on one immunologist, but as a test of whether democratic societies are prepared to defend scientific integrity when it becomes politically inconvenient.

Coda: The Arithmetic

The loyalty hearings did not end because the country came to its senses. They ended in pieces, slowly, through the ordinary machinery of institutions correcting themselves long after the damage was done.

In December 1954 the Senate censured Joseph McCarthy — not for what he had done to his witnesses, but for his contempt toward the Senate itself. In 1957, in Watkins v. United States, the Supreme Court threw out a contempt of Congress conviction and told the legislature what should not have needed saying: that there is no congressional power to expose for the sake of exposure, and that the Bill of Rights does not stop at the door of a committee room. The HUAC limped on for another decade, was quietly renamed in 1969 in the hope that a new letterhead might obscure the record, and was finally abolished in 1975. J. Parnell Thomas, who authored the report on Condon, went to federal prison for stealing from his own staff. The scientists were rehabilitated one at a time, each on his own schedule: Condon by the slow accumulation of nothing being found; Wen Ho Lee by a judge’s apology from the bench; Oppenheimer by an act of the Department of Energy in December 2022, sixty-eight years after the verdict and fifty-five years after his death.

That last figure is the closest thing we have to a conversion rate between an inquisition and its apology. Anthony Fauci is eighty-five years old. On the historical schedule, the formal acknowledgment that the Senate should not have done this arrives in the year 2094.

The apologies, when they come, are always sincere and always useless. They are the reason this sequence is worth naming while it is still in progress rather than later. The point of everything preceding this section is that the fourth stage was not an accident of one senator’s obsession. A committee can only conduct a proceeding like the one just conducted when the institutions that would otherwise object have been dismantled first — when the advisory committees have been fired and restaffed, when the research offices have been eliminated and their remnants moved inside the administrator’s suite, when the funding architecture has been rewritten to serve “investable technology,” and when the scientific community itself has been scattered widely enough that it can no longer close around one of its own the way the physicists closed around Condon in 1948.

But now note what that defense achieved, and what it did not. Einstein spoke for him. Harvard’s physics department wrote to the President. Nine Nobel laureates sponsored a dinner. Truman denounced the committee from a stage with Condon seated beside him. And Edward Condon still lost his clearance, twice, and left government, and never got the career back. The only body that stayed silent was the National Academy of Sciences, whose members favored a public statement by 275 to 35 and whose leadership decided instead to have a quiet word with the congressman.

That was what a confident, intact, fully funded scientific community could manage at the height of its postwar prestige. It was not enough.

Which is the answer to the question the previous section leaves open. The institutions of American science are not silent today because speaking would work and they lack the courage. They are silent because they have counted the cost and concluded, likely correctly, that speaking might not save him. In 1948 the physicists made that same calculation and spoke anyway, and it did not save Edward Condon either.

It was still worth making, because the record it created is the reason we know today which side was right. That record is what the apologies eventually cite. Someone has to make it while the thing is unfolding.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Update — August 6

The Senate Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee voted this morning, eight to five, to hold Dr. Anthony Fauci in contempt of Congress. Every Democrat present opposed it, with two more opposing by proxy. Senator Paul told reporters afterward that he would hand-deliver the referral to Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche the same day, and expected Blanche to pass it to Jeanine Pirro, the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia, along with the federal district court.

The mechanism deserves attention, because it is not the one this article anticipated. A contempt resolution ordinarily goes to the Senate floor, where it requires sixty votes. Senator Paul decided it need not go there at all. His resolution instead directs the President of the Senate — Vice President Vance — to certify the committee’s action directly to the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia, bypassing the chamber entirely. Paul’s own explanation was that nothing in the rules requires the full Senate to be involved. He conceded that a floor vote might follow after the August recess, and then acknowledged there might be no point in holding one.

So the sixty-vote threshold was not met. It was avoided. This then is a sharper version of the argument made above rather than a refutation of it: a proceeding that cannot command a majority of the Senate has been routed around the Senate, and the referral will carry the signature of a committee rather than the force of Congress.

The ranking Democrat, Senator Peters of Michigan, made the point that this article has been making about the Immunity Act, and made it on the record. Criminal contempt, he observed, is punitive. It does not compel a witness to answer questions, and it does not produce a single document. What it does produce is a precedent that future witnesses will invoke to resist legitimate oversight, weakening the committee’s power to compel testimony in cases where compulsion is warranted. The one lawful route that would actually make Dr. Fauci speak — a formal grant of immunity through a federal court — remains available and remains unused, for the reason given above. It would foreclose the prosecution that is the object of the exercise.

Whether the Justice Department acts on the referral is now the open question, and the answer will likely say more about the Department than about the law. Legal specialists have consistently held that Dr. Fauci’s invocation rests on solid ground: the test is whether a witness holds a reasonable fear of prosecution, and a witness whose pardon has been publicly questioned by the President, whose committee chairman has spent five years demanding his imprisonment, and who remains exposed to state charges and to false-statement investigations arising from any testimony he gives, has a fear that is concrete rather than speculative. The pardon covers conduct through January 2025. It does not cover anything he might have said in a hearing room last week. That is precisely why the hearing was held.

The early reading among legal commentators is that neither the acting Attorney General nor the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia has much appetite for this. Both have reasons of their own — a confirmation vote pending in one case, a contested standing and a poor recent record before District juries in the other — and neither gains anything by taking on a misdemeanor prosecution of an eighty-five-year-old public servant that turns on a constitutional question the government is likely to lose. Going along with a referral is not the same as acting on one. A referral can sit.

There is also a growing recognition of what the committee gave up. Had it granted immunity through the ordinary statutory route, Dr. Fauci would have been compelled to answer, and the committee would have obtained the testimony it claims to have wanted. It chose instead a path that produces no answers, no documents, and a citation of doubtful weight, and that will now move — if it moves at all — slowly toward an appellate resolution it may never reach. That was a choice, and it tells you which of the two objectives was real.

Senator Johnson announced this week that his subcommittee has obtained Dr. Fauci’s government cellphone. He described his investigation as having just begun. Senator Moreno, whose contribution to the July hearing is noted above, called the vote a small measure of justice and named prosecution as the next step.

Dr. Fauci is not without recourse. A prosecution would give him a forum, and a court would very likely find for him; there may also be civil remedies for what has been done to his private diary and his government phone. But recourse is not the same as relief, and the relevant measure is not whether he prevails but when. Wen Ho Lee was released in 2000 and settled his claim against the government six years later, without admission of wrongdoing by anyone. John Watkins waited three years for the Supreme Court to vacate his contempt conviction. Dr. Fauci is eighty-five. A referral delivered by hand today becomes a charging decision, then an indictment, then a trial, then an appeal, and the calendar is indifferent to the merits. This is the same arithmetic set out above, arriving sooner than 2094 and still, in all likelihood, too late to matter to the man it concerns. Vindication that outlives its subject is a matter of record, not of justice.

The citation was the product. It has now been produced, and delivered by hand. Whatever becomes of it, a physician who spent over fifty years in the service of the United States government, under seven presidents of both parties and awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom and the National Medal of Science, has been made to sit in a hearing room and decline to answer one hundred and eleven questions on the advice of counsel who was not permitted to sit beside him. That is the disservice, and no subsequent ruling undoes it.

One qualification about what comes next. The November midterms will not, by themselves, end this. Senator Paul’s chairmanship, his subpoena power, and his ability to make referrals all depend on the Senate majority, and a change in the House would leave them intact. What a change in the House would end is the parallel investigation at House Oversight, and with it the pincer that has allowed one chamber to argue the pardon is valid and the other that it is void. It would also close the only route by which a contempt referral could carry the force of Congress without sixty votes, since a House citation requires only a simple majority. Whether either chamber changes hands is not for this article to predict. What can be said is that the machinery described here has more than one power source, and that the ones which have silenced the universities and the learned societies are not all located in the Senate.

Ariadne’s Dispatches will continue to follow this case, and the broader campaign against scientists and scientific institutions, in the months ahead.

This is a continuation of a series on American science under the second Trump administration. The first piece, “The Missile Gap of Our Own Making,” examined the dismantling of the National Science Foundation and the reconstruction that will eventually be required to restore the nation’s prestige and leadership in science, engineering, technology, and mathematics.

I’ve loved museums since my earliest memory of being taken to one — the Museum of Natural History in London. I couldn’t imagine how the collection had been assembled, but each object seemed to carry a secret story I longed to have told to me. I listened enthralled to Neil MacGregor’s A History of the World in 100 Objects1, and I’ve been equally captivated by Roman Mars’s unfolding A History of the United States in 100 Objects2, which opens with the contents of a century safe, unsealed to a rather baffled reception a hundred years after it was closed.

Both works inspired this one. My plan is to identify not only artifacts but places and events, natural and historical, and — like MacGregor and Mars — to explain each selection’s historical and contextual importance as I see it. A number of one hundred has been the common denominator among these collections. I’ve chosen forty-two.

I’m not yet sure how often new entries will appear, but for the first I’ve chosen a portrait. I can gaze at some for so long I feel in conversation with the subject, while others usher me along. Living subjects can have uncomfortable reactions to their own rendering. Winston Churchill didn’t care for Graham Sutherland’s representation of him — a gift from both Houses of Parliament for his eightieth birthday, presented at Westminster Hall in 1954. His wife Clementine had it hidden away at Chartwell, and little more than a year later had it carried off in the middle of the night and burned on a bonfire. A few photographs survive to recall what it looked like, and Sutherland declined the idea of producing a second one.

Contrast this with what we believe to be a likeness of William Shakespeare, hanging at London’s National Portrait Gallery. We can’t be certain it’s him, nor confident of who painted it, nor is it prominently displayed — and yet it draws millions of viewers a year.

A portrait, then, is never the sum of the materials that make it. Rather, it’s an interpretation of how a person should be remembered, made by an artist and a subject and — increasingly — an institution, and the three don’t always agree. Washington keeps its own version of this running at all times, in a building most visitors walk past, perhaps because the National Portrait Gallery came later in the growth of the Smithsonian’s museums, reviving the historic Old Patent Office Building.

Every nation keeps an attic. Ours is the Smithsonian — twenty-one museums, a zoo, more than 150 million objects, the accumulated evidence of what a country decided was worth keeping. This series is about that attic — not the whole collection, but the pieces of it that argue loudest, each marking a moment in history commemorated or forgotten, with a story I want to share with you. Some will be places, or moments, or things the institution deliberated over and could not decide how to keep. The frame is simple: what an object is, what its label used to say, and what its label says now, if it says anything at all.

The first thing is a painting, and it earns the position on its own merits, not on the mythology that now also envelops it. In February 2018, the National Portrait Gallery unveiled Amy Sherald’s portrait of Michelle Obama, titled “Michelle LaVaughn Robinson Obama” — a seated figure in a grayscale so unusual that some early viewers complained it didn’t look like her at all. Within months, the complaint was moot. The painting became one of the most photographed works of art in the country, drawing crowds that stood in line for a museum selfie the way tourists queue for Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris. It has been reproduced on magazine covers, parodied, quoted in fashion editorials, and taught in art schools on three continents. Whatever else it is, Michelle Obama’s portrait is now something rarely found even in the National Portrait Gallery’s seemingly inexhaustible collection: an image the whole world recognizes on sight. That is why Sherald’s portrait of the First Lady opens this series. What happened to her next exhibition is why this series of things exists at all.

Sherald did not arrive at that commission by appointment or favor. In 2016, she won the Portrait Gallery’s own Outwin Boochever competition, first prize out of twenty-five hundred entries submitted blind — the first woman, and the first Black artist, to take it. The prize came with the right that mattered: a commission to paint a living subject for the museum’s permanent collection. The Obamas chose their own portraitists the way any subject does, by meeting the candidates and deciding whom to trust with the likeness; Sherald has said she knew the arrangement would work within the first few sentences of the interview. Nothing about the process was extraordinary. It was the National Portrait Gallery doing exactly what it exists to do — find the artist, trust the artist, hang the result — and for eight years, it worked.

The exhibition that should have been the National Portrait Gallery’s marquee event of the year does not exist there. “American Sublime” had already toured from San Francisco to the Whitney, where it remained on view in New York through early August, before its final scheduled stop: the National Portrait Gallery, opening September 19, 2025. American art has weathered public outrage before — Serrano’s “Piss Christ,” the Mapplethorpe retrospective the Corcoran canceled in 1989, the NEA’s own near-death over funding fights in the same era. What hadn’t happened, in any of those episodes, was a sitting Vice President serving on the museum’s own governing board while one of its artists’ paintings came under review. Vance sits on the Smithsonian’s Board of Regents — a seat the Vice President holds by statute — and the March executive order tasked that board with removing “divisive” content. It was through the board that concerns reached Sherald about “Trans Forming Liberty,” her reimagining of the Statue of Liberty as a Black transgender woman. The Smithsonian called it wanting to “better contextualize” the work. What that meant in practice was a proposal to pull the painting from the exhibition and replace it with a video. In a letter to Smithsonian Secretary Lonnie Bunch, Sherald wrote that the video “would have opened up for debate the value of trans visibility,” and that she would not make that debate part of “American Sublime.” She withdrew the entire show in July 2025, eight weeks before it was due to open in Washington — while, in New York, the same painting was still hanging, unchallenged, at the Whitney.

The Baltimore Museum of Art stepped in on two months’ notice, opening the show that November. It became the museum’s most-attended exhibition since 2000, drawing 84,000 visitors — more than double the museum’s own projection — before closing in April. It has since moved to its final stop, the High Museum in Atlanta, where it runs through late September. The painting a Vice President’s board could not display without a rebuttal attached is on public view, unaccompanied, in the capital of Georgia. The federal government owns the building where the likenesses of memorable Americans are supposed to be kept. It does not own the museum in Baltimore.

There is a version of this story that turns on the painting itself — its politics, its provocations, whether an eight-foot Statue of Liberty in a different body is a fitting subject for display in a government building. That is not this story. This is an account of what happened before anyone on the Smithsonian board chose whether they agreed with the painting being shown, because the arrangement on offer was never about the painting. It was about who gets to attach a caption to the work, and whether the artist gets a say in what her own painting is made to argue with. Sherald had already answered a version of that question once, eight years earlier, when a national jury of curators sifted twenty-five hundred submitted portraits and settled, without controversy, on hers. Nobody asked her then to hang a rebuttal beside Michelle Obama’s dress.

Sherald did not need anyone’s permission for the first painting to become what it became. Nobody in Washington promoted it, decided it mattered, or told the public what to feel about a woman in a grey dress. It became the most photographed portrait in the museum’s history because millions of separate people, over eight years, kept deciding on their own that it was worth standing in line for. That is the only mechanism that has ever reliably produced an icon, and it is the one thing a government cannot order into being.

Which is what makes the attempt on the second painting so instructive. A Vice President sitting on the Smithsonian’s board, a proposal to swap a painting for a video, a withdrawal, a scramble to Baltimore — all of it was an effort to manage what the public would be allowed to see and conclude, by the same office that cannot manufacture an icon on command. It didn’t work. “Trans Forming Liberty” is hanging in Atlanta this month, seen by more people than a quiet run in Washington would likely have drawn. The attempt to control its reception became part of its story instead of preventing one.

Put the two paintings side by side — as the High Museum now literally does — and they teach the same lesson from opposite directions. The first is the icon no office in Washington could have manufactured: it became the most photographed portrait in the museum’s history because millions of people decided on their own that it was worth the line. The second is the painting no office in Washington could make disappear: the attempt to manage its reception only enlarged its audience. A government can commission a survey, hire a publicist, hold a premiere at the Kennedy Center. It cannot make people love what they’re told to love, and it cannot unmake what they’ve already decided to love — which is why both paintings are hanging together in Atlanta this summer, drawing the kind of line that formed outside the Baltimore Museum of Art on a Tuesday morning, for a show the government had decided Washington couldn’t see.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Notes:

On July 3, in a grand hall in Beijing, Tsinghua University welcomed its newest faculty member with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for a visiting head of state. American Nobel laureate Omar Yaghi — the Berkeley chemist who shared last year’s prize for the invention of metal-organic frameworks, the porous materials now used to harvest water from desert air and capture carbon from smokestacks — was introduced as one of the world’s foremost scientists. He will lead a new institute applying AI to dramatically accelerate the rate at which new materials can be discovered. Yaghi is not alone, nor is he the first Western scientist drawn to take his talents to China. Charles Lieber, who chaired Harvard’s chemistry department until his 2020 prosecution over undisclosed China ties, is now at Tsinghua’s Shenzhen campus. So is Liu Jun, who ran data science and AI research at Harvard. China has taken to calling its foreign-recruitment strategy a “talent black hole,” for its capacity to pull in leading scientists from everywhere else.

The American media barely noticed. There was no reckoning, no congressional hearing, no moment of national attention paid to the fact that a Nobel laureate had concluded his best work now lay eight thousand miles from the university that trained him. Eighteen months into the second Trump administration, this is what the systematic disassembly of American scientific leadership looks like: not a single dramatic rupture, but an absence where alarm should be.

Here is the argument I want to make, and then spend the rest of this piece defending. Every administration fights with its scientific agencies over money and priorities — that much is normal, and even healthy. What has happened since January 2025 is categorically different: the deliberate removal of the machinery that lets expertise reach power, replaced in places by nothing and in others by leadership whose qualification for the job is notable chiefly by its absence. And the damage this has done cannot be undone by Congress simply restoring the funding, because the funding was never really the point. Rebuilding it is going to take something closer to what the country built after the Soviet Union launched Sputnik — a deliberate, sustained reconstruction, not a supplemental appropriations bill. The difference this time is that the last “gap” the country closed was opened by an adversary. This one we opened ourselves, by handing the direction of American science to people whose primary qualification is loyalty rather than competence.

Stay in Place

At the peak of the Cold War, American scientists sometimes had their passports withheld to keep them from meeting counterparts behind the Iron Curtain. When the third UN Ocean Conference opened in Nice in June 2025, scientists from NASA and NOAA who were scheduled to participate were simply denied the opportunity to attend; the United States sent only a small delegation of political appointees. It was the second such exclusion in four months — State Department officials and NASA’s chief climate scientist had already been blocked from an IPCC meeting shaping the next global climate assessment, after NASA’s technical-support contract for the meeting was cancelled outright. A year later, the administration moved to dismantle the Ocean Observatories Initiative, a $386 million network of nine hundred deep-sea sensors that had spent a decade tracking the Atlantic current system scientists believe may be approaching collapse. Congressional and scientific pushback forced a pause in June. But the pattern was set well before the reversal: absence from the rooms where the world’s scientists coordinate, combined with the active removal of the instruments that would let American scientists contribute anything to coordinate about.

Headless Leadership

The National Science Foundation has taken the most sustained battering of any research agency, and its story best illustrates why restored funding does not equal restored capacity.

In April 2025, staff from the newly constituted Department of Government Efficiency arrived at NSF and within days had ordered a halt to pending grant approvals, a purge of any proposal touching diversity or misinformation research, and a demand that the director draw up a plan to fire half the agency’s seventeen-hundred-person staff against a proposed 55 percent budget cut. Sethuraman Panchanathan, the Trump appointee who had led the agency since 2020, resigned within the week, writing only that he had “done all I can.” NSF went on to terminate over 1,750 grants worth $1.4 billion — more than half of that from programs training the next generation of American scientists and engineers.

Then, in a sequence that ought to be studied closely, Congress did the responsible thing: it rejected the 55 percent cut and funded NSF at $8.75 billion for fiscal 2026, nearly its historical level. The agency was hollowed out anyway. Staffing losses left NSF short-handed enough that it cut its minimum peer-review requirement from three outside reviewers to two — eroding, by administrative necessity rather than policy choice, the merit-review process that is NSF’s entire reason for existing. Grants are now being awarded at roughly a fifth of the historical rate. Neal Lane, who ran the agency under the Clinton administration, told The Hill in April that the Trump administration had built something “unrecognizable” out of the old NSF. The money came back. The institution did not — which is exactly the pattern the rest of this piece traces elsewhere.

Cancer, Unbuilt

The administration’s opening budget bid proposed cutting the National Cancer Institute by roughly 40 percent, from $7.2 billion to about $4.1 billion — the kind of number that, if enacted, would have reversed a decade of steady growth in the one federal program most directly responsible for the 34 percent decline in American cancer mortality since 1991. Congress has so far resisted the full cut, much as it resisted NSF’s. But resistance at the appropriations level has not stopped the damage at the grant level. Across NIH as a whole, nearly 5,850 grants were cancelled or suspended over the course of 2025, alongside roughly 2,000 more at NSF — some 7,800 in total, disproportionately concentrated in infectious disease, vaccine research, and work involving underrepresented populations. Courts have ordered a portion reinstated. Roughly 2,600 grants, representing $1.4 billion in unspent funding, remain frozen regardless. At the National Cancer Institute specifically, at least 172 grants aimed at reducing cancer disparities among racial minorities and LGBTQ+ patients were still terminated as of this June. NCI staff have taken to calling the pattern of sudden cancellations “drone attacks” — funding vanishing from above, with no warning and little recourse.

Layered onto this is Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s reconstruction of HHS’s advisory apparatus: the wholesale dismissal of the CDC’s vaccine advisory committee and its replacement with members who share the secretary’s skepticism of vaccination, and a stated intention to overhaul the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force that determines what preventive care insurers must cover. NCI’s own leadership says it wants to fund more transformative research. What actually gets funded when a budget contracts and a review process is stripped down, the institute’s deputy director told KFF Health News, is safe science — not the science that changes anything.

The Board Fired Days Before It Could Say the Quiet Part Out Loud

On April 24, 2026, all twenty-two members of the National Science Board — NSF’s statutorily independent oversight body, in continuous existence since 1950 — received a two-sentence email informing them their positions were terminated effective immediately. No reason was given. The timing was not subtle: the board was days from releasing a report warning that the United States is losing ground to China in science and technology. Thirty-seven Nobel laureates signed an open letter calling the dismissal “an alarming attack on the ability of the US to engage in basic and applied research.”

The same season, the President’s Council of Advisors on Science and Technology — the body that has, across administrations since Eisenhower, been staffed with the country’s leading academic scientists — was reconstituted under the leadership of Mark Zuckerberg and Larry Ellison. One academic remains on the council.

This is the detail that exposes what the AI investment boom actually is. The administration’s rhetoric treats the AI race with China as the defining technological contest of the era, and by the dollar figures involved, it is investing accordingly — NSF’s 2026 budget request protected AI and quantum computing as the only priority areas spared from cuts, even as advanced manufacturing fell 65 percent and biotechnology fell 30 percent. But protecting an AI budget line while firing the oversight board that would have told Congress how the US actually stacks up, and replacing independent scientific advice with the CEOs of the companies most invested in the outcome, is not a research strategy. It is capital allocation dressed in research’s clothing. Omar Yaghi’s departure for a Chinese-government-backed AI materials institute, two months after the board that might have flagged the risk was dissolved, is not a coincidence so much as a demonstration.

“Harm,” Redefined

On July 10, the Interior Department finalized a rule narrowing what counts as “harm” to a species under the Endangered Species Act. For fifty years, the term covered habitat destruction — the reasoning being that a species can be extinguished as surely by bulldozing its home as by killing it directly. Under the new rule, oil and gas drilling, mining, and logging are permitted in critical habitat so long as no individual animal is directly injured. Environmental groups warn the change could push already-imperiled species toward extinction by removing the last legal obstacle to development in the reserves set aside to protect them. It is the same administration that, in its first term, tried and failed to weaken the Act, only to have Biden reverse the changes. This time the rule reaches further, and there is no guarantee of a reversal on the other side of it.

A Reverse Sputnik

In October 1957, a beeping Soviet satellite the size of a beach ball convinced the United States, rightly or wrongly, that it was falling behind in a contest for survival. The response was not a budget line-item restoration. It was the National Defense Education Act, a near-doubling of NSF’s appropriation within three years, the creation of NASA, and a decade-long expansion of federal science funding that built the research university system this country still runs on. The “missile gap” that followed — the claim, largely overstated, that the Soviets had opened a lead in ballistic missile numbers — became the justification for a buildup so thorough that by the time the gap was revealed to have been illusory, the capacity built to close it was real and permanent.

What is happening now is that gap’s mirror image. Instead of a foreign shock triggering mobilization, a domestic administration is engineering the gap directly: firing the board that would have quantified the China competition, gutting the agency that trains the scientists who would close it, and driving a Nobel laureate to build China’s AI materials capacity with his own hands. Congress restoring NSF and NCI budgets to their prior levels — which it has mostly done, more responsibly than many expected — was necessary and is still not sufficient, because the thing that was destroyed was never primarily the money. It was peer review cut from three reviewers to two. It was a National Science Board that existed to give Congress and the president independent warning, now gone. It was seventeen hundred NSF staff reduced by over a third, so that even fully funded grants sit unprocessed. It was researchers like Marianna Zhang at NYU wondering aloud whether her scientific career has to move outside the country, and Omar Yaghi answering that question with his feet.

Rebuilding a peer-review culture, a demoralized federal science workforce, and the trust of a generation of researchers who watched their funding vanish like a drone attack is not a matter of a supplemental appropriations bill. It requires something closer to what the country did after 1957 — a deliberate, multi-year, bipartisan program to rebuild the institutions themselves, not just refill their accounts. The historical irony is that the missile gap which triggered the last great mobilization turned out to be mostly fictional. This one is not. We built it ourselves, and by the time Washington notices, the government of China will have spent a decade wooing away the people who might have closed it.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

This is part of a series on the damage being inflicted on American science and medicine under the second Trump administration. A future piece will look more closely at what a reconstruction program on the scale of the post-Sputnik build-out would actually require.

The making of a man of letters

The popular science press has greeted the fiftieth anniversary of The Selfish Gene with the retrospectives you would expect — celebratory, often fawning, a lap of honor for a book that has sold millions of copies and made its author famous. A closer look at the half-century tells a different story: a man who built an exquisite rhetorical cage, became trapped inside it, and spent the next fifty years mistaking his own echo for a conversation.

Evolution has never been received as biology alone. From the moment Darwin conceived it, natural selection was read for what it was held to imply — for human nature, morality, politics, religion, and the standing of the cultures that produced it. The biology has advanced in a steady stream of corroboration; the argument, from the beginning, has been about everything the science was thought to mean. The Selfish Gene is one episode in that long tradition, and Richard Dawkins has spent half a century insisting on the science while doing most of his actual work in precisely the cultural and moral arenas where evolution was always being read for something other than itself.

And unlike the theory it champions — absorbed, in the end, almost by stealth — The Selfish Gene arrived in a maelstrom of sensation. That was by design, and the design is the key to the man.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

When Dawkins first proposed his idea — not in a scientific paper but as a popular book — he suggested that genes, the basic functional units of heredity, displayed a characteristic he also chose for his title: they were selfish. He later recounted that a publisher had pressed him to consider “immortal” as a less downbeat alternative, one that still conveyed the relentless pursuit of replication the gene represented. Dawkins was convinced that “selfish” was the right choice. In personifying the gene, he did two things at once — he gave it agency, a deliberate and fertile anthropomorphism, and he lent the fundamental unit of life a human vice. The vice is what made the book readable. It is also what made it explode.

We are survival machines — robot vehicles blindly programmed to preserve the selfish molecules known as genes. … We are born selfish.

— Richard Dawkins, The Selfish Gene, 1976

The choice was not neutral, and it did not go unchallenged. When the book appeared in 1976, it triggered a historic feud with the philosopher Mary Midgley, who argued that Dawkins was not deploying a benign metaphor but smuggling an ideological worldview into evolutionary biology — “crude, cheap, blurred genetics,” she wrote, “propping up crude, cheap, blurred psychology.” Dawkins dismissed her as having achieved a “superhuman feat of misunderstanding.” Despite — perhaps because of — the elegance of his writing in these battles, he has largely escaped sustained scrutiny of the flaws in his account of evolutionary theory and, later, of the religious objections that have always shadowed it.

It is worth being precise about what Dawkins did and did not propose. The gene-centered view of evolution had been assembled over the preceding decade and a half by others. W. D. Hamilton’s 1964 papers on inclusive fitness gave kin selection its mathematical foundation. George C. Williams’s Adaptation and Natural Selection (1966) made the systematic case against group selection and for the gene as the unit on which selection acts — and had sat in the literature for ten years by the time Dawkins came to write his synthesis. Robert Trivers’s early-1970s papers on reciprocal altruism and parental investment supplied the social behavior. To these, Dawkins added John Maynard Smith and George Price’s evolutionarily stable strategies, then only three years old. None of the mathematics was his; indeed, those whose work he synthesized admired his gift for communicating it. Trivers’s 1976 foreword — dropped from the 1989 second edition, then restored by Dawkins in 2006 as “a source of particular joy” — is reprinted again in the fiftieth-anniversary edition. What was Dawkins’s own was the synthesis, gathering arguments scattered across journals into a single readable frame — and, decisively, the title. The science was already on the table. The act was rhetorical.

This is the structural fact of Dawkins’s career, and most retrospectives decline to take it seriously. What he produced from 1976 onward was the career of a man of letters in the British tradition — a writer whose authority derived from the cumulative weight of his writing on subjects that radiated outward from the original synthesis into culture, religion, and morality. The book has appeared in five editions across fifty years, each with a fresh foreword or epilogue longer than the last. But after his 1966 doctorate under Niko Tinbergen on selective pecking in the domestic chick, and a brief early run of ethology papers, his published research effectively ends with the publication of The Selfish Gene. There is no continuing laboratory, no field site, no long-running research question he returns to across decades. The closest thing to a sustained Dawkins research program is the body of his own popular books, each extending or defending the arguments of the last. He is best understood not as an evolutionary biologist who turned to public writing but as a man of letters whose original subject happened to be evolutionary biology. He emerged at a moment when popular books applying sociobiological ideas to human behavior — Desmond Morris’s The Naked Ape, Robert Ardrey’s The Territorial Imperative, both by Oxford acquaintances — were enjoying enormous success, and The Selfish Gene arrived as the most rigorous and most enduring of the wave.

This distinguishes him from almost every other scientifically trained public intellectual of his era. David Attenborough, fifteen years older, has spent seventy years presenting the diversity of life to a global audience and has consistently declined to turn that authority to religious polemic, saying that the natural world is wonder enough without it. Freeman Dyson used his standing as one of the great theoretical physicists of the century to think publicly about religion, ethics, and meaning, accepted the Templeton Prize in 2000, and described science and religion as two windows on the same world. Stephen Hawking and Richard Feynman, the most widely read scientists of their generations, both held the gentle agnosticism that has been the dominant register of working-scientist public writing. The figures who built a religious-opposition platform on their scientific reputations are a much smaller category — the Four Horsemen of New Atheism, of whom only Dawkins came from a scientific background, and the only one whose research career had ended thirty years before the platform was built.

I met both Dawkins and Hitchens socially, on separate occasions, in the early 2000s — briefly, and without serious debate with either. Both were strikingly different in person from the platforms they were then consolidating: gentler, more curious, and more willing to listen than the polemical personas they would spend the next decade hardening into. The men, by all accounts, did not change as much as their work suggested.

A Thatcherite Description of Evolutionary Theory

What concerned Midgley most was that the selfish gene looked remarkably like Thatcherite Britain — competitive, individualist, suspicious of collective action. She saw the metaphor as a mirror held up to the politics of its moment, not a neutral scientific description. Whether that was fair to Dawkins or not, it opens a door: if the metaphor carried unnecessary politico-cultural baggage, it is worth asking where that baggage came from.

The journalist Andrew Brown, writing in The Independent in 1998, saw something beneath the surface. He called Dawkins “the Calvin of the Darwinian reformation: a man with a vision like a laser beam — dazzling, unnaturally coherent, and ultimately too narrow to illuminate the world around us.” Brown noted the exquisite manners, the charm, and the brilliance as a teacher. But he also saw the fear. He described Dawkins waking his two-year-old daughter on a cold night in 1986 to show her Halley’s Comet — except that neither could see it. The problem, Dawkins wrote, was that the number of photons reaching their retinas was close to zero. Brown disagreed: the problem, he thought, had nothing to do with photons and everything to do with a man afraid of death and of losing touch with the child he loved, reduced to an inarticulate stoicism. That portrait — the brilliant but emotionally insulated Oxford don, replacing religion with science as the only permissible source of wonder — has not aged a day.

Dawkins was raised in colonial Kenya during the final years of British rule — a world of legal racial segregation, the White Highlands reserved for European ownership, and the largely Muslim Asian population brought from India classified, with Africans, as subordinate. From there, he moved, after English boarding school and a Balliol degree, into an Oxford career and eventually to a chair created specifically for him by a wealthy admirer, Charles Simonyi. He held the Simonyi Professorship for the Public Understanding of Science from 1995 until his retirement in 2008, and has held an emeritus fellowship at New College since. That double insulation — first by colonial class, then by sustained standing at Oxford — gave him a singular vantage. He has always presented his views as pure reason speaking truth to power. But Midgley sensed, correctly I think, something else underneath: a worldview in which hierarchy and competition are simply taken for granted as natural.

Darwin’s Long Shadow

Evolution occupies a unique place among scientific theories. Few people regard plate tectonics or high-energy physics as a threat to their faith or their morals. Evolution has always been different — and it was different before Darwin ever published.

Darwin did not arrive in an empty room. By the 1840s, the idea that species changed over time was already in the air in British intellectual life, and Darwin himself later admitted in his autobiography that the subject was “in the air.” Malthus had supplied, in his 1798 essay on population, the pitiless arithmetic of struggle that Darwin and Wallace would each seize on independently as the engine of selection. Herbert Spencer was assembling a whole philosophy of progressive development that would soon give the age its most durable slogan, “survival of the fittest” — a phrase Darwin himself adopted only later, and with misgivings. Transmutation was not a secret waiting to be revealed. It was a rumor everyone had already heard.

What it lacked was a mechanism and a respectable name — and what it carried, meanwhile, was danger. The clearest measure of that danger is a book almost no one reads now, but nearly everyone read then. In 1844, fifteen years before the Origin, an anonymous volume called Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation argued that the universe, life, and humanity included, had unfolded by natural law rather than by separate acts of creation. It became a sensation — Prince Albert read it aloud to Queen Victoria, and it outsold the Origin for decades — and it was savaged from every respectable quarter as blasphemy in scientific dress. Its author, the Scottish publisher Robert Chambers, was so certain of the ostracism that would follow that he concealed his identity for the rest of his life; the secret was not revealed until 1884, thirteen years after his death. Darwin, watching the mauling, drew the obvious lesson. He credited Vestiges with removing prejudice and “preparing the ground” for his own views — and then spent fifteen years not publishing them, refining his evidence behind closed doors while the controversy he dreaded played out on another man’s book. Only when Wallace independently arrived at the same theory in 1858 did Darwin finally move, and even then cautiously, offering in the first edition of the Origin nothing more than the famous hint that “light will be thrown on the origin of man and his history.”

That is the world into which the Origin arrived: a public already primed, the ideas already in circulation, and a shared awareness on all sides that what looked like a quarrel about barnacles and finches was really a quarrel about God, morality, and the standing of human beings in nature. The science was never received as science alone. It never has been since.

Is the Gene Still Selfish?

By the time The Selfish Gene appeared, evolutionary biology was entering a new era. The modern synthesis of Darwinian selection and Mendelian genetics had largely triumphed, and population genetics supplied a powerful mathematical framework. Yet molecular biology was still in its infancy — the first complete genome sequence, of a bacterial virus, would not appear until the following year, and the Human Genome Project was a distant dream. Dawkins’s central claim was elegantly simple. Genes are the fundamental units of selection; organisms, humans included, are temporary vehicles built by genes to ensure their own replication; and much apparently altruistic behavior can be understood as strategy in the service of genetic survival.

For a quarter-century, the argument’s most visible form was a duel between Dawkins and Stephen Jay Gould — gene’s-eye reductionism against historical contingency, gradual adaptation against punctuated change. It was one of the defining public arguments of late-twentieth-century science, and it was never actually settled. Molecular biology simply changed the terms beneath it.

At the time, those of us watching these fights up close tended to take sides less by argument than by affection — you backed whichever combatant you liked better, because everyone sensed the real quarrel was not biological at all. Beneath the disputes over adaptation and the levels of selection lay questions that were finally philosophical and religious, and no working scientist was comfortable saying so in public. That larger reckoning — Midgley, Gould, Wilson, and what they were really fighting about — deserves its own essay, and I mean to come back to it.

What overtook them all was not a theoretical paper but the sequencing of ever-increasing genome sizes. The Human Genome Project, completed in 2003, may prove one of the most consequential achievements in the history of science, and its first surprise was deflationary: humans carry roughly 20,000 protein-coding genes, not the 100,000 or more that had been expected. Complexity did not live in the gene count. It emerged from interactions — regulatory networks, developmental pathways, non-coding DNA, environmental and epigenetic influences. The genome revealed a biology both simpler and more complicated than anyone had imagined.

The revolution largely vindicated Dawkins’s insistence that genes matter: evolutionary change is ultimately recorded in DNA, and comparative genomics has confirmed common descent with overwhelming precision. But it also exposed the limits of simple gene-centered thinking. Genes do not operate as isolated agents pursuing private interests; they function within vast, interconnected systems in which regulatory context often matters as much as the protein-coding sequence. The emerging field of evolutionary developmental biology — “evo-devo” — showed that small changes in developmental regulation could produce large anatomical differences, quietly bridging the old Dawkins–Gould divide: big evolutionary changes could arise through ordinary genetic mechanisms acting on developmental systems. Some have called the broader framework an Extended Evolutionary Synthesis. Whether the label survives or not, the direction is clear. Evolutionary biology has become less reductionist and more integrative; genes remain indispensable, but they are now understood as components within larger systems of inheritance, development, and environment.

So, is the gene still selfish? Both yes and no. In claiming that genes remain central actors in evolution, Dawkins was fundamentally right. As a claim that genes alone explain the complexity of life, the answer is clearly no — and Dawkins himself now concedes that genes were never “selfish” in any literal sense. He has even admitted he could as easily have called the book The Cooperative Gene. That admission is telling because the choice of the other word was never neutral.

The point has a sharper, chemical form. In a 2018 essay for Chemistry World, the science writer Philip Ball asked a disarmingly simple question: do genes actually copy themselves? Dawkins had always insisted that the gene is special because it is a “replicator” that makes exact copies of itself. But no one has ever observed a gene, as an autonomous unit, copy itself — not in a test tube, not in a cell. Genes are copied only with the help of enzymes, inside the machinery of a whole cell, and what gets copied is not a solitary gene but an entire genome, useless without the cellular apparatus that reads it. Ball is careful: Dawkins was right that only the gene passes unchanged through the selective sieve. But the language — genes “swimming in a broth, competing with one another” — paints a picture chemistry does not support. Ball ends by quoting Steven Pinker’s line about a pitiless, ruthlessly competitive universe and asking, as one might of any author: so why this story? ” The question hangs over The Selfish Gene fifty years later. Not because the science was wrong, but because the story was never the only one available.

The Cultural Christian

There is a reason the argument left the public square, and it is not only that Gould died in 2002. By the time the dispute moved onto genomic terrain, it had moved beyond the reach of the audience that made Dawkins famous. Anyone can form a view about whether a baboon’s aggression is “selfish”; almost no one can adjudicate a quarrel about regulatory networks or epigenetic inheritance. The battlefield of intuition — animals behaving, and humans recognizing themselves in them — gave way to a battlefield of specialist expertise, where popular argument was simply impossible. And a public intellectual whose entire gift was for public argument needed a terrain the public could still enter. Religion was waiting: the one arena where everyone still feels entitled to an opinion. That, as much as anything, is why he moved there. (Chambers, castigating “the narrowness of specialist science” in 1845, had felt the same tension from the other side.)

The God Delusion (2006) has sold more than three million copies in over thirty languages, outselling The Selfish Gene within two decades, and the assault on religious belief has been the mainstay of Dawkins’s work ever since. Yet where the science had constrained him, the culture war did not. His public statements on Islam in particular have drawn sustained criticism. In 2013, he tweeted that the world’s Muslims together held fewer Nobel prizes than Trinity College, Cambridge — they had done great things in the Middle Ages, he allowed. He has called the burqa a “bin bag.” He has mocked the Prophet’s Night Journey as a story about a flying horse. Dawkins insists he criticizes ideas, not people, and that Islam deserves no more protection from ridicule than Christianity — a defensible position. But his critics note the tone of unearned superiority, the confidence in ranking whole populations by a single metric, the apparent inability to imagine that his own vantage might be shaped by where he came from. The colonial Kenya of his childhood placed its Muslim Asian population near the bottom of a hierarchy with Europeans at the top. Dawkins grew up in that world, left for Oxford, and has spoken ever since as if he occupies no social position at all — only reason, only science, only truth.

The pattern recurred elsewhere. In 2021, the American Humanist Association stripped him of the Humanist of the Year award it had given him in 1996, after a tweet comparing transgender identity to a white woman falsely claiming to be Black. The Association’s statement was blunt: Dawkins had accumulated a record of using the guise of scientific discourse to demean marginalized groups. His response was characteristic — the honor, he said, had not meant enough to him to merit recording on his CV.

The contrast with James Watson is instructive. In 2007 Watson — co-discoverer of the structure of DNA, as decorated as the century produced — told a British newspaper that he was gloomy about Africa because he took the intelligence of Black people to be lower than that of whites. The establishment’s long indulgence evaporated within days. Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, which he had built into a powerhouse, suspended him and eased him out; he sold his Nobel medal in 2014, calling himself an “unperson”; by 2019, the lab had stripped his remaining honorary titles. Dawkins has said things not obviously milder and paid a fraction of the price: one humanist award withdrawn, waved off as beneath his CV, while his chair, his fellowship, his platform, and his standing remained intact. Why the asymmetry? It is the argument of this essay in miniature. Watson’s authority was institutional — the lab, the titles, the honors — and institutions can revoke what they confer. Dawkins’s never was. He built it book by book, in the literary marketplace, and a reputation you own outright is one no committee can take back. The man of letters has no laboratory to be removed from. That is how he gets away with it.

What makes his present position hardest to engage with is the country in which he holds it. The Britain of 2026 is not the Britain of 1976. The Conservative Party, historically the party of established-church England, is led by Kemi Badenoch, a Black woman of Nigerian heritage. The Prime Minister from 2022 to 2024 was Rishi Sunak, a practicing Hindu, in office, constitutionally charged with defending the Faith. The Mayor of London is a British Muslim of Pakistani descent. King Charles III, at his 2023 coronation, included representatives of all his realm’s major faiths for the first time and has described himself as a Defender of Faiths, in the plural. The 2021 census recorded Christianity as the religion of less than half the population for the first time. In lived political fact, the country has already answered the question Dawkins is still asking. His “Cultural Christian” positioning is not the defense of a settled order; it is a campaign against an actual settlement, and therefore reactionary rather than conservative in any traditional sense. That this has gone largely unremarked in the science media marking the anniversary is itself part of the story.

In 1998, Andrew Brown quoted the philosopher Jerry Fodor’s observation that science tells us there is a great deal of "because" in the world and very little "for". Dawkins, Brown concluded, has done more than any living writer to illuminate the because of natural selection — and more than almost anyone to muddy the question he most wants answered: what for?

What the fiftieth anniversary actually marks, then, is half a century of a particular kind of writer in the British tradition — a man of letters whose original subject was a brilliant, provocative synthesis of mathematics that others had already worked out, and whose later authority was spent not on the science but on the cultural and religious meaning the science was always, from Chambers onward, being made to carry. Attributing selfishness to the gene turned out to be wrong; our understanding of the gene has been transformed by genomics and epigenetics, unimaginable in 1976. And Dawkins, fifty years on, is best known not as a scientist but as a writer who developed a venomous animosity toward faith — and in that he stands apart from the great scientists who wrote about the questions to which science has no answer, and felt no need to pretend that it did.

Reader note: The author is neither a Muslim nor an atheist. He stands, intellectually, closer to Richard Feynman on the shore — humbled by what is not understood, and skeptical of those who claim to have settled it.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Further Reading

Philip Ball, “Revisiting Richard Dawkins’ Idea of Replication,” Chemistry World (2018) — A chemist’s challenge to the “replicator”: a gene is copied only by the machinery of the whole cell, never on its own.

Robert Chambers, Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation (1844; James Secord, ed., 1994) — The anonymous Victorian bestseller that made evolution a drawing-room controversy and prepared the public mind for Darwin.

Andrew Brown, profile of Richard Dawkins, The Independent (1998) — The portrait of Dawkins as “the Calvin of the Darwinian reformation” that still fits.

Japanese Conceptual Artist Isao Hashimoto produced the above video time-lapse map of every nuclear explosion from 1945-1998

A few years ago I won a lottery. I had a ticket to visit the Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory on a “Behind the Fence” tour, allocated online, oversubscribed, no way to simply buy your way in. Before it I visited the Trinity Site during one of the open houses that, until recently, the Army ran twice a year, every April and October. That biannual schedule is gone now, quietly reduced to a single October date after budget cuts and a government shutdown canceled the spring events in recent successive years . Even so, a few thousand people showed up for the day I visited, a crowd the size of a small stadium, for a walk to an obelisk in the desert and the preserved farmhouse so accurately depicted in the movie Oppenheimer.

Eighty-one years ago today, at 5:29 in the morning, the desert north of Alamogordo turned briefly into the surface of the sun. The exact spot of the explosion can be viewed today.

The line most people associate with that moment — “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds” — has become so fused with the event itself that it is worth saying plainly: Oppenheimer did not speak those words at the time of the test. He offered them twenty years later, in a 1965 NBC documentary called The Decision to Drop the Bomb, reflecting on what he remembered thinking as he watched the fireball climb. The footage is on YouTube now, and it is worth watching not for the quote from Gita alone but for the flat, exhausted quality of his delivery — a man describing a memory he had clearly turned over many times, not a man narrating a thought he had in real time. The gap between the moment and the quotation is itself a small parable about how these anniversaries work: we remember the line before we remember the history, and the line was manufactured well after the fact.

That gap is about to widen further. Hiroshima’s anniversary falls in three weeks, Nagasaki’s three days after that, and both arrive this year, as they do every year now, with a less coverage than the year before. The hibakusha are dying. The number of people who can describe August 6th and 9th, 1945, from firsthand memory shrinks every August, and with them goes the last living check on the tendency to let these dates flatten into footnotes — a wire story, a photo of paper cranes, nothing that requires anyone to reckon with what actually happened. Trinity gets even less than that, since no one died at Alamogordo the way people died at Hiroshima and Nagasaki, at least not immediately; the fallout deaths came later, and quietly, among people who were never evacuated and mostly never told.

It remains genuinely contested — not settled, not the province of cranks — whether the bombs had to be dropped on Japanese cities at all. By the summer of 1945, Japan had already absorbed a firebombing campaign that killed more people in Tokyo alone in a single night in March than died immediately at either Hiroshima or Nagasaki, and the country’s leadership was maneuvering, however incoherently, toward some form of surrender. General Eisenhower was amongst a group of senior figures who considered the use of the atomic bombs unneeded to obtain Japan’s surrender. What made Hiroshima and Nagasaki categorically different from Tokyo, Dresden, or any other city reduced to ash by conventional bombing was not the scale of immediate death but a property no firebombing raid possessed: the capacity to keep killing for decades after the blast, and in principle to end not just a city but the species. That is the property Trinity introduced to the world, and its afterlife is not abstract. Downwinders near the test site, hibakusha in Japan, and people exposed during the roughly two thousand atmospheric tests conducted before the 1963 partial ban are still alive today, still carrying elevated cancer risk from an event most of them had no part in and no warning about.

What is worth marking today is not just the horror but what the horror produced. The Manhattan Project scientists who built the bomb were, many of them, the first to try to leash it. Leo Szilard began circulating a petition among his Los Alamos and Chicago colleagues within weeks of Trinity, arguing against using the weapon on Japanese cities without warning; it went nowhere, and the bombs were dropped anyway, but the scientists who had signed it didn’t stop organizing. By December 1945 that unease had produced two durable institutions: the Federation of American Scientists, formed from the amalgamation of the wartime scientists’ associations, and the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, founded by Manhattan Project physicists including Eugene Rabinowitch. The Bulletin is the one still best known to the public, mostly for the Doomsday Clock it has set every year since 1947 — an odd, almost quaint instrument, a subjective judgment dressed up as a measurement, and yet it remains one of the only devices anyone has for putting a number on how close we are to catastrophe.

Pugwash belongs to this story too, though its lineage runs slightly differently than people often assume — it was chartered not by Trinity directly but by the Russell-Einstein Manifesto of 1955, a document written in the shadow of the hydrogen bomb and the Bikini fallout, by scientists who were themselves shaped by the original Manhattan Project reckoning. Joseph Rotblat and Pugwash won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1995 for decades of quiet, cross-bloc scientific diplomacy, and the organization still exists. But it has become exactly what elite bodies tend to become when their founding urgency fades: a seat at a table that increasingly does not matter, a credential rather than a force. The Union of Concerned Scientists came later still, born in 1969 out of MIT faculty and student protest against the militarization of research during Vietnam, a second-generation descendant of the same impulse rather than a direct child of it — and it has arguably had more durable policy impact than Pugwash, having helped build the public case for the 1972 ABM Treaty.

None of these organizations stopped a war or a bomb on their own. But they did something else: they insisted, continuously, for eight decades, that the people who understood the physics had an obligation to say out loud what the weapons could do, regardless of what governments wanted to hear. That insistence looks almost quaint today.

The last treaty constraining American and Russian strategic nuclear arsenals, New START, expired this February without a replacement and without so much as a formal negotiation to produce one. Russia offered, informally, to keep observing the treaty’s old limits for another year; Washington has not committed to anything beyond a promise to eventually negotiate something “better,” ideally with China at the table, and Beijing has already said it has no interest in showing up. Meanwhile China’s own arsenal is growing faster than any other country’s, and both Washington and Moscow retain the technical capacity to upload additional warheads onto existing missiles quickly, should either decide the other is moving first. For the first time since the early 1970s, there is no active bilateral or multilateral arms control negotiation of any kind underway between the states that hold the vast majority of the world’s roughly twelve thousand warheads. Eighty-one years after Trinity, we are not managing the bomb. We are, once again, simply waiting to see who moves first.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

On July 8, at the NATO summit in Ankara, Donald Trump told Volodymyr Zelensky that the United States would grant Ukraine a license to build Patriot air-defense missiles. He called it “pretty cool.” It is considerably more than that. If it goes forward, Ukraine will become only the third country on earth — after Japan and Germany — permitted to manufacture America’s most capable air-defense system on its own soil. Poland, a NATO member for a quarter-century, has spent seven years and counting trying to qualify to build a single component of the same missile. Ukraine, mid-invasion, has apparently been offered the whole license outright.

That gap — between what a treaty ally has had to earn in years and what a non-member has been handed in a single afternoon — is the right place to start a series about NATO’s nuclear age, because it isn’t really a story about Patriot missiles at all. It’s a story about how the West decides who is trusted with its most sensitive technology, and about a country that once held that trust at the highest possible level, was made to give it up, and is only now beginning to get pieces of it back.

Ukraine’s inherited nuclear knowledge

Before it was a country invaded by a neighbor and in desperate need of munitions and economic support, Ukraine was, briefly, the third-largest nuclear power on the planet. At independence in 1991, it inherited roughly 1,900 strategic warheads and 176 ICBMs from the collapsing Soviet arsenal, along with strategic bomber fleets based at Priluki and Uzin — more warheads by count than Britain, France, and China combined. This wasn’t a peripheral Soviet holding. Ukraine sat at the core of Soviet strategic force planning, and its engineers, technicians, and military planners possessed operational knowledge of that architecture firsthand.

That knowledge didn’t evaporate when the warheads went back to Russia between 1992 and 1996. Ukraine retains, in its institutional memory and almost certainly in its ongoing intelligence collection, a depth of insight into Soviet-legacy nuclear planning and operations that very few states can claim — layered on top of decades of hands-on expertise running nuclear power reactors at Chornobyl and Zaporizhzhia, expertise that includes, uniquely, direct experience of what catastrophic reactor failure and battlefield seizure of live nuclear infrastructure actually look like. On the narrower question of whether Ukraine could, today, design and build a weapon independently, its technical capacity is no greater and no less than that of several other European states that have chosen not to. What sets Ukraine apart is not latent capability. It’s lived history with the thing itself, from the inside, at a scale no other European state can match.

The Budapest Memorandum

Ukraine gave up that arsenal in exchange for a specific written guarantee. The Budapest Memorandum, signed in December 1994, bound the United States, the United Kingdom, and Russia to respect Ukraine’s existing borders and refrain from the threat or use of force against it. France and China issued separate, weaker unilateral assurances rather than co-signing the memorandum itself — a distinction worth holding onto, because it means the failure that followed wasn’t a diffuse “Europe” failing to honor a vague promise. It was three specific capitals — Washington, London, Moscow — that owed Ukraine something concrete. One of them broke it outright in 2014, annexing Crimea. The other two did not enforce it.

Ukraine’s military performance and the NATO threat-assessment problem

Something else happened after 2022 that nobody in NATO planning circles had gamed as plausible: Ukraine held. For decades, NATO’s entire Cold War force posture assumed a Warsaw Pact armored thrust into Western Europe would be effectively unstoppable in its opening days — the alliance’s founding operational premise was to trade space for time until American reinforcement could cross the Atlantic. Ukraine, fighting with less and qualitatively inferior equipment against a numerically superior force employing the doctrinal descendant of that same Soviet armor, did what NATO’s own planners had never modeled as possible for NATO itself.

Lawrence Freedman has reviewed analysts’ assessments of the likely outcome of a Russian invasion of Ukraine. In his view, ‘analysts portrayed war as a matter of equipment and doctrine, something that could be planned and executed, more as a complex engineering project than as a contest of will, military skill, and personalities. Their misjudgment was not a case of normal error or exaggeration. The expert community grossly overestimated Russian military capabilities, dismissed the chances of Ukraine resisting effectively, and presented the likely outcome of the war as quick and decisive.’1

I have a personal stake in explaining why this surprised the alliance as much as it did. In the years I spent at SHAPE Technical Center, we supported the annual exercise by modeling a full Warsaw Pact invasion of Western Europe — and we were instructed — not left to our own judgment — on the capabilities of the Soviet and satellite forces provided to us. These were well beyond what any of us privately believed reflected the ground truth found in open sources. The result, every year, was the same: NATO overrun within days. I worked for an organization whose role was to provide scientific and technical advice to SACEUR, so assessments concluding that Warsaw Pact cohesion was fragile and its equipment mediocre were unlikely to be appreciated. That conclusion would have undercut the very case the alliance needed to make to skeptical parliaments about force levels and burden-sharing. The threat inflation wasn’t a modeling error. It was the product the institution required. I don’t claim any credit for saying so then or now — I wasn’t a whistleblower, more a dog whistle sounding within the register of a foghorn, audible mainly to myself. But I mention it because, in 2022, Ukraine did the empirical work that decades of NATO staff work had never been structured to do honestly: it tested the assumption, in the open, against the actual army it was built to model.

NATO’s “out of area” irony

There’s a further irony worth naming. This is an alliance that spent its first four decades refusing, on principle, to act “out of area” — its founding purpose confined strictly to collective defense within the treaty’s own boundaries — before being drawn into Afghanistan under Article 5’s only invocation to date. It has now spent going on four years wrangling internally over how to support a country defending exactly the kind of home territory NATO was built to defend, against exactly the kind of adversary it was built to deter — and doing so more effectively, with less, than the alliance’s own planning assumptions ever credited as possible.

The Patriot announcement and what it actually means

Which brings us back to Ankara. Patriot is a genuinely multinational weapon already — built nowhere entirely, assembled everywhere from an international supply chain: Lockheed Martin manufactures the PAC-3 interceptor in Arkansas, Raytheon builds the radar and command architecture, Japan’s Mitsubishi Heavy Industries has produced PAC-3 interceptors under license for years (and shipped some back to the US last November to help replenish stocks drawn down by Ukraine transfers), Germany is opening a new assembly line for the older PAC-2 variant this September. Eighteen countries beyond the United States operate the system, spanning Europe, the Gulf, and the Asia-Pacific. It is, by any measure, one of the most trusted pieces of American military technology in the world — trusted enough to be built, in pieces, by exactly two allies in seventy years of the program’s existence.

Ukraine would be the third. Not because it has spent decades qualifying for the license, the way Poland has spent seven years and counting certifying a single component. But because four years of demonstrated performance — against the very force NATO spent the Cold War failing to accurately assess — appears to have done what decades of alliance membership have yet to do for Warsaw: earned Kyiv, mid-war, a level of technological trust that the alliance extends to almost no one.

That asymmetry — a non-member trusted faster than a member — is where this series begins. It is also where Poland belongs in the story from the outset, not as a footnote to be added later: a state that has never been struck by Russia, negotiating carefully for coverage it may not get quickly, standing next to a state that was struck twice and is being offered, at least in promise, what Poland is still waiting for.

As we track these issues in the months ahead, we’ll trace how we got to a Europe where that asymmetry is possible — how American nuclear guarantees kept the continent from building its own weapons for seventy years, how that guarantee has frayed, and where Ukraine’s technical inheritance, once forfeited, might yet find a new role in whatever architecture replaces it.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

On June 11, 2026, President Trump signed Proclamation 11035, lifting commercial fishing restrictions from three Pacific Marine National Monuments — Papahānaumokuākea, the Islands Unit of the Mariana Trench, and Rose Atoll. Roughly half a million square miles of ocean, protected under three administrations spanning both parties since 2006, was reopened to industrial long-lining and purse seining with a single black Sharpie signature. It was the last of the five US marine national monuments to fall. The Pacific Islands Heritage monument went first, in April 2025. The Northeast Canyons and Seamounts monument in the Atlantic followed. By June 2026, over a decade of effort to protect these vulnerable areas of the planet’s oceans had been abruptly ended.

Taken alone, this is a fisheries policy story: an administration reallocating access between conservation and industry, the kind of pendulum swing the Antiquities Act has always invited. But Proclamation 11035 does not stand alone. It is the third act of a year-long retreat from ocean science and ocean governance that has cost the United States more than square miles. It has cost it a seat at the table.

Act I: an empty chair in Nice

In June 2025, more than fifteen thousand delegates gathered in Nice, France, for the third UN Ocean Conference — heads of state, marine scientists, mayors of coastal cities from Bergen to the Pacific islands. The United States prevented its scientific delegation from attending. Instead, the administration sent non-participating observers from the President’s Environmental Advisory Task Force, six weeks after signing an executive order asserting a national security interest in seabed mineral extraction. The absence of scientific participation was not accidental; it was consistent with an administration that had already made clear where it stood, in opposition to a consensus of the world’s nations.

The conference did not wait for Washington. Nineteen more nations ratified the High Seas Treaty in Nice, pushing the total past fifty. By September, the remaining ratifications needed brought the treaty into force — a binding international framework for governing the two-thirds of the ocean that lies beyond any nation’s jurisdiction, written and adopted without the country that has the largest exclusive economic zone on Earth. The treaty’s fight was over “biodiversity beyond national jurisdiction” — marine genetic resources, benefit-sharing, and a mechanism for establishing high-seas marine protected areas. American biotech and pharmaceutical interests had lobbied against the benefit-sharing provisions as a tax on innovation. The rest of the world moved on without them.

Act II: the buoys come up

In May 2026, the National Science Foundation announced it would dismantle the Ocean Observatories Initiative — nine hundred instruments across the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the waters off Greenland, in continuous operation since 2016, monitoring everything from coastal flooding risk to the health of the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation. The stated saving was $48 million a year against a $368 million system. By mid-June, buoys were already off the water in Newport, Oregon, loaded onto flatbed trucks, when a unanimous Senate vote and a bipartisan revolt from lawmakers who called the plan “supreme stupidity” forced newly installed NSF leadership to reverse course. The equipment sat in a warehouse. The European Union, watching the American system come apart, announced it would spend €92 million bolstering its own ocean observation capacity — taking over where the US had opted out.

The reversal was real, and it mattered — an oceanographer’s plea and a Republican senator from Alaska worried about her state’s fisheries did more for American ocean science in three weeks than a year of advocacy. But reversal is not restoration. The Endurance Array had already been pulled from the water. Redeployment, NSF acknowledged, would take months. The data gap during that window does not refill itself once the buoys go back in the water — and American participation in the global observing system will be re-established on new terms, where the de facto acceptance of US leadership will be harder to regain.

Act III: the monuments

Which brings the story back to June 11. The administration’s own language in Proclamation 11035 is instructive: it argues that the monuments’ scientific and historic objects are already protected by existing federal statutes — the Magnuson-Stevens Act, the Marine Mammal Protection Act — so monument-specific fishing bans are “not necessary at this time.” This is the same reasoning, almost verbatim, that dismantled the Pacific Islands Heritage monument in April 2025 and the Atlantic’s Northeast Canyons and Seamounts before it. It is not an argument about any particular monument. It is a template, applied five times, for treating a specific instrument of ocean protection as redundant with the general regulatory background — even though the entire history of the Antiquities Act’s use in the ocean rests on the judgment that the general background has proven insufficient.

The pattern, not the episode

None of these three retreats, examined separately, is unprecedented. Presidents have expanded and contracted monument protections before. Congress has fought NSF over budget priorities before. Treaty negotiations have gone forward without American ratification before — the UN Law of the Sea Convention itself remains unratified by the US more than four decades after it was opened for signature.

What is different is the compression. In the space of twelve months, the United States absented itself from the room where ocean governance was being written; planned to end its own systems for observing what was happening in the water, until prevented by Congress from doing so; and then opened that same water to mineral and fishery exploitation whose economic value, weighed against the risk of irreversible environmental damage, has never been seriously considered. Each decision was defended in the language of efficiency, sovereignty, or economic opportunity. Together they describe something else: a country choosing, deliberately and repeatedly, to know less about the ocean and to exert less influence over its governance, at the exact moment its competitors were doing the opposite.

The Hawai’i longline fleet’s own record supplies the cautionary number. The last time these waters were open to industrial fishing at this scale, in 2015, the fleet caught 7,800 sharks and discarded more than 99 percent of them as bycatch. That is not a hypothetical cost of reopening half a million square miles. It is a documented one, from the last time the experiment was run.

The ocean does not send delegations to protest its exclusion from Nice, and it does not hold an emergency vote in the Senate to save its own monitoring buoys. It simply continues generating the currents, the fish stocks, and the warming trends the instruments were built to measure — now, moving forward, with fewer American eyes watching, and less American authority to act on what they might have seen.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

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My interview for citizenship of the United States was canceled on the morning of the day it had been scheduled: September 11, 2001.

I had first come to America in the early 1970s, hooked by the Americans themselves — their nation, President Kennedy, the race to the Moon, Bell Labs, the Grand Canyon. The whole enchilada. When a post-doctoral fellowship at Stanford University came through, I collected my visa from the US Embassy — the old one in Grosvenor Square, now a super-posh hotel — and noticed it was valid until the expiration of my passport: roughly twenty years. I mentioned this to an American colleague at the IISS, where we were both based. He wasn’t up on the pro forma either. “I guess we want to keep you over there,” he said with a wry smile.

They would, though not before an eventful journey. After a couple of years I joined the technical staff of NATO, and four years later returned to London, my home town, to work in Whitehall — a short walk from King’s College, where I had taken my doctorate. An old friend I ran into on the street observed that I had taken the longest route from King’s to Whitehall one could possibly imagine. “But I doubt we’ll keep you,” he added. “You’ll be back in America before long.” The Soviet Union collapsed, the Berlin Wall came down, and I made a career change. A short six-month assignment in 1990, helping countries connect to the NSFNET, and I have lived in the United States ever since.

By then I had married a Daughter of the American Revolution from Connecticut. Our two daughters were born Londoners but, thanks to their mother, held American citizenship alongside their British nationality.

After a decade of hesitating over whether to apply for citizenship myself, I finally admitted that I would not be returning to the UK. My daughters were becoming young Americans: they played lacrosse and made only token efforts to support Premier League football clubs. My citizenship interview was, of course, rescheduled. The immigration officer asked me to name the nine Supreme Court justices. I don’t know whether she meant it as a gotcha, but she remained expressionless as I rattled them off. Then she said: “Look, these are very difficult times. Give me one good reason why I should approve your application for citizenship.” I told her I had daughters who played lacrosse for their high school and were applying to American colleges, and that I saw my life here with them. She approved it.

At the swearing-in ceremony in Baltimore my family met so many people with more wonderful stories than mine. I remarked on the sheer diversity of the gathering — people literally from all over the planet. One of my daughters shot back: “Dad, this is America!”

Some years ago I persuaded my brother to part with the serenity of the Cotswolds and let me show him the America I love. We drove across the country following the route of Lewis and Clark. Somewhere along the trail — hence the photograph — I was pressed into service as a clothes horse, modeling Captain Lewis’s uniform at one of the orientations. My brother, a tough nut to crack, was impressed.

Happy July 4th

Farooq Hussain

In the spring of 1995 I found myself in a conference room in Ann Arbor, Michigan, making a presentation to the board of Merit Network — one of the most consequential regional academic networks in the United States and the organization that operated the NSFNET backbone on behalf of the National Science Foundation (NSF). I was there as a member of a team from telecom company Sprint, which was competing for the NSFNET’s successor services. My presentation was on the provision of Network Access Points — NAPs — that the NSF had specified in its request for proposals (RFP) for the transition of the NSFNET backbone to commercial operation. Merit though a key player was not exactly a happy audience. The NSFNET had been their project, their managed network infrastructure, their vision of what a publicly stewarded Internet could and should be. Now they were being asked to evaluate a presentation from one of the commercial operators that would replace it.

When I finished, the chair of FARNET — the Federation of American Research Networks, the body that represented the academic networking community whose interests were most directly threatened by what we were proposing — offered what I took to be a compliment. The NAPs, he said, would enable networks to interconnect, to eventually connect everyone. “A thousand points of light.” The phrase landed with a slightly awkward thud. It was borrowed from George H.W. Bush’s 1988 acceptance speech, where it had described citizen voluntarism — an oddly utopian register for a room full of network engineers contemplating a commercial handover. We took it as gracious. But I think everyone in that room understood, without saying so, that the thousand points of light he was describing and the thousand points of light we were actually building were not quite the same thing.

That gap — between the internet that the academic founders imagined and the Internet that commercial privatization actually produced — is what this piece is about.

The NSFNET had been, in its way, a remarkable experiment and amongst the long list of great accomplishments in the NSF’s storied history. Launched in 1986 as a high-speed backbone connecting six elite supercomputing centers, it expanded over less than a decade to serve thousands of academic institutions across the United States and beyond. Its Acceptable Use Policy (AUP) was explicit: no commercial traffic. The Internet it sustained was an egalitarian commons, governed by committees of dedicated voluntary scientists and engineers. Founded on the assumption that the protocols themselves — open, non-proprietary, indifferent to who was sending what to whom — were sufficient architecture for a free and open network. It was a beautiful idea. It was also, as events would demonstrate, catastrophically innocent about the power of good over evil.

By April 30, 1995, the day the NSF formally decommissioned the NSFNET backbone, that innocence was already over. What replaced it was not the open marketplace of competing networks that the NSF’s RFP had hoped for or anticipated. Though it was something that anyone who had spent time around telecommunications and the break up of the AT&T monoply might have predicted: an oligopoly, consolidating with remarkable speed around whoever controlled the physical infrastructure.

The First eXchange

Before the NAPs, before the RFP, before the formal machinery of the NSFNET transition had been set in motion, the architecture of commercial Internet interconnection was already being built outside institutional channels and their advice or consent - neither of which was strictly required.

The NSFNET backbone in its final years was operated not directly by the NSF but by Advanced Network Services ANS — a consortium led by IBM that used MCI as it’s telecom infrastructure provider) which carried the NSFNET traffic under the restrictions of the AUP. The ANS consortium occupied a peculiar and increasingly untenable position: it controlled the primary backbone infrastructure of what was becoming hugely commercially viable, while being contractually prohibited from carrying commercial traffic on it. Rather than treating this as a transitional arrangement, ANS leveraged its infrastructure dominance defensively, refusing to peer — to exchange traffic on equal terms — with the commercial networks that were beginning to emerge alongside it. UUNET and PSInet, the first true commercial Internet service providers, found themselves locked out of the backbone. So, for that matter, did Sprint, at the time the only traditional telecommunications carrier operating a commercial national internet backbone service whose underlying infrastructure carried all international connections to the NSFNET and peered with ANS for this purpose.

The response was not to petition the NSF or negotiate with ANS. It was to route around them. In 1991, UUNET, PSInet and Sprint connected to each other over a 100 megabit per second metropolitan area Ethernet circuit and began exchanging commercial internet traffic directly. This was the Commercial Internet Exchange — the CIX — and it was, in the most literal sense, the first commercial internet exchange point in history.1 I was there to witness it: three networks, a shared Ethernet, and the first time commercial internet traffic moved across the United States without touching the NSF’s infrastructure or seeking its blessing.

The CIX demonstrated something that the NSF’s architecture had not anticipated and ANS had actively tried to prevent: that neutral interconnection worked, that it could be built quickly and cheaply, and that it did not require the participation of whoever happened to control the dominant backbone. The lesson was not lost on the NSF. When the agency began designing the NSFNET transition, the NAP architecture drew directly on what the CIX had proved possible. In that sense the RFP was the NSF’s attempt to formalize and institutionalize a model that the commercial networks had already built in spite of it.

But by the time the RFP appeared, UUNET and PSInet had drawn their own conclusions from the CIX experience. They had built their networks, established their customer relationships, and demonstrated that commercial internet services could thrive entirely outside the NSF’s gravitational pull. They had no interest in re-entangling themselves with institutional procurement processes or neutrality requirements that might constrain what they had spent years building the freedom to do. They sat the NAP competition out entirely — and proceeded to compete directly and successfully against MCI, which had won the regional network relationships the NSF’s award structure had effectively reserved for it. The NSF, caught between IBM’s defensive entrenchment and the commercial networks’ determined independence, found that its carefully designed transition architecture was being bypassed almost before it was built.

The Architecture of Good Intentions

The NSF’s request for proposals for the NSFNET transition was, in retrospect, a document that understood infrastructure but not markets. It specified three Network Access Points — neutral interconnection facilities where the new commercial backbone networks would exchange traffic with each other and with the regional academic networks that had grown up under the NSFNET umbrella. The neutrality requirement was sensible; telecommunications carriers had long experience with neutral interconnection arrangements, and Sprint, as both a NAP bidder and a backbone network operator, had no difficulty incorporating the necessary provisions into its proposal. The architecture on paper was coherent. What the NSF appeared not to have fully gamed out was what would happen when commercial incentives met the physical reality of where network infrastructure already existed.

The first structural problem was the award itself. Rather than designating a single neutral operator for each of the three NAPs, the NSF split the award between two companies. The logic may have been to preserve competition. The effect was to immediately undermine the neutrality the NAPs were supposed to embody. Two competing NAP operators meant two competing interconnection points, which meant the backbone networks that were supposed to meet at the NAPs now had a choice — and choices, in telecommunications, tend to be resolved by wherever your cables already run.

Sprint’s NAP was located at such a co-location facility where multiple telecommunications carriers had long maintained infrastructure for the exchange of traffic between networks. It was, in physical terms, an entirely logical place to build an internet interconnection point. It was also, crucially, not unique. The backbone networks could peer with each other at any number of locations where their infrastructure happened to converge, and they had every commercial incentive to do so bilaterally rather than routing traffic through a designated — and potentially congested, potentially competitor-controlled — NAP facility. Settlement-free peering agreements between national backbone networks proliferated rapidly, bypassing the NAPs entirely.

The commercial picture worsened when the NSF regional networks — the academic institutions that the transition was ostensibly designed to serve — made their carrier selections. The majority signed with MCI, and not entirely by accident: the NSF had structured its awards in such a way that only MCI was positioned to walk away with the old NSFNET regional network relationships intact. The real competitive battle that followed was not the one the NSF had designed for. It was fought between MCI and the commercial network service providers — UUNET and PSInet chief among them — who had never competed for NAPs at all and were therefore entirely unconstrained by the architecture the NSF had built. They went head to head against MCI on purely commercial terms and succeeded. Sprint, meanwhile, pulled in behind.

What emerged from the lopsided award was an imbalance in the networks awarded to the Tier 1 national backbones that heavily favored the incumbent carrier MCI that provisioned the network barebones for ANS, and the division of the NAP award between a carrier Sprint, and Bellcore a carrier neutral service provider that had anticipated receiving the award for all three. But the NAP concept, stripped of commercial ambitions, proved to be architecturally durable. Internet eXchange Points — IXPs — proliferated globally in the years that followed, drawing directly on the model of neutral co-location facilities where networks could exchange traffic efficiently and cheaply. Today there are hundreds of them, from Frankfurt’s DE-CIX to Singapore’s Equinix exchanges, handling traffic volumes that would have been unimaginable in that Ann Arbor conference room in 1995. In that sense the thousand points of light did eventually materialize — just not as anyone in the NSF’s procurement process had planned, and not in a form that benefited the companies that took the original commercial risk.

The NAPs were, in the end, a failed experiment that generated a successful idea. Sprint planted a seed it couldn’t harvest. The harvest came later, elsewhere, and largely outside the commercial logic that had driven the original transition. What the NAP experience did establish, with uncomfortable clarity, was the pattern that would define the internet’s subsequent development: well-intentioned institutional design, structurally compromised at the moment of execution, superseded by dynamics its architects had not anticipated and could not control.

The Free For All That Wasn’t

The promise of the commercial internet, as the NSF and its regional network community understood it in 1995, rested on a single elegant assumption: that the exchange of traffic between networks would remain essentially free, governed by bilateral settlement-free peering agreements in which networks of roughly equal size and traffic volume would swap packets without payment. The model had worked well enough in the academic commons, where traffic flows were relatively balanced and the participants shared an institutional culture of cooperative exchange. It was always going to struggle in a commercial environment where traffic volumes were determined not by research needs but by consumer demand — and where consumer demand was about to become extremely large and extremely asymmetric.

The asymmetry problem was structural and predictable. As the internet became a mass medium, traffic stopped flowing in rough equilibrium between networks and began flowing overwhelmingly in one direction: from the content and backbone networks toward the consumer. A network carrying mostly residential internet customers generated far more inbound traffic than outbound. Under settlement-free peering, that network was receiving a service — delivery of its customers’ content — without compensating the networks providing it. The Tier 1 backbone networks, which carried the heaviest loads and had invested most heavily in physical infrastructure, were the first to draw the obvious conclusion. They declined peering agreements with smaller networks that could not demonstrate traffic parity, forcing them onto paid transit arrangements instead. Settlement-free peering, the foundational promise of the Internet, became a privilege reserved for networks large enough to be worth peering with — which is to say, the exactly those networks that already dominated the infrastructure from the start.

The result was precisely the oligarchical hierarchy that the NSF’s open competition model had been designed to prevent. A small group of Tier 1 backbone providers — networks whose physical infrastructure was extensive enough to command settlement-free peering with each other — sat at the top of a rigid commercial pyramid. Below them, regional and local networks paid transit fees for access to the global grid. The further from the core, the higher the effective cost of connectivity. The borderless, frictionless Internet of academic imagination had been replaced, within a few years of the NSFNET shutdown, by a toll road system whose operators were a handful of well-capitalized survivors of the privatization scramble.

The Consolidation and Its Consequences

Into this environment of rapid consolidation came the dot-com boom — and with it a wave of speculative capital that accelerated the concentration of infrastructure ownership to a degree that would have seemed implausible in the Ann Arbor conference room of 1995. The Netscape IPO of August that year, which valued a company with negligible profits at nearly three billion dollars on its first day of trading, functioned as a starting pistol for a gold rush whose participants largely abandoned the discipline of asking whether their investments would ever generate returns. Startups were valued on “eyeballs” and “mind share.” Venture capital flooded in. Loss-making companies bought advertisements on other loss-making companies, inflating traffic metrics and revenue figures in a circular economy that bore no relationship to the underlying economics of what the internet actually was — a physical network of copper, fiber and routing equipment whose construction and maintenance cost real money.

No company embodied the speculative logic of this period more completely than WorldCom. Under CEO Bernie Ebbers, WorldCom executed a relentless acquisition strategy premised on the assumption that internet traffic would grow exponentially and without limit, and that whoever controlled the most infrastructure would capture the value of that growth. The strategy’s culmination was the $37 billion acquisition of MCI — the same MCI that had walked away from the NSFNET transition with the regional network relationships the NSF’s award structure had effectively reserved for it. WorldCom had now absorbed the institutional heir to the academic internet backbone and was betting its entire financial structure on infinite growth.

When the NASDAQ peaked at 5,048 in March 2000 and the speculative bubble began its long deflation, the bet was exposed. Internet traffic was growing, but not at the rates WorldCom’s acquisition prices had assumed, and the fiber networks it had built or bought were carrying far less traffic than projected. To conceal the resulting revenue shortfall from Wall Street, WorldCom’s leadership turned to fraud, reclassifying billions of dollars in routine operating expenses as long-term capital investments. When internal auditor Cynthia Cooper uncovered the conspiracy, the scale of the deception was staggering — eleven billion dollars in falsified accounts. On July 21, 2002, WorldCom filed for bankruptcy, at the time the largest in United States history. The network the NSF had effectively delivered to MCI had passed through WorldCom’s hands and into a bankruptcy court in less than a decade.

Though UUNET and PSI had played a foundational role in the establishment of the Internet did not survive their expansive growth when the Internet Bubble burst. MCI after a failed merger with British Telecom was acquired by WorldCom which filed for bankruptcy within a few years and sold its Internet assets to Verizon. In an ultimate irony, MCI which had fought to break the AT&T monopoly and the de-regulation of telephony in the US was swallowed up by old Ma Bell in the end - Verizon was the new name of the former AT&T regional carrier Bell Atlantic.

The Undersea Bet

While WorldCom was consolidating the domestic backbone, a parallel and equally speculative drama was playing out beneath the world’s oceans. Global Crossing was not a retail Internet provider or even a conventional backbone network. It was a carrier’s carrier — a wholesale infrastructure company whose business was laying and operating the undersea fiber optic cables that connected continents, selling capacity to the telecommunications carriers and backbone networks that needed transatlantic and transpacific connectivity to serve their customers.

The logic was the same as WorldCom’s: traffic would grow without limit, bandwidth would remain scarce and therefore expensive, and whoever controlled the physical cables would capture the rents from that scarcity. Global Crossing raised billions on that premise, building a network of undersea cables that genuinely did internationalize the Internet’s backbone infrastructure, connecting Europe, Asia and the Americas in ways that Sprint’s International Connections Manager work had pioneered on a much more modest, institutionally anchored scale. When the bubble burst, Global Crossing collapsed into bankruptcy in January 2002, six months before WorldCom, in what was at that moment the fourth largest bankruptcy in American history.

When WorldCom internal auditor Cynthia Cooper uncovered the company’s fraudulent activity, the scale of the deception was staggering — eleven billion dollars in falsified accounts.On July 21, 2002, WorldCom filed for bankruptcy, at the time the largest in United States history.The network the NSF had effectively delivered to MCI had passed through WorldCom’s hands and into a bankruptcy court in less than a decade.

The aftermath was also instructive. The undersea cables didn’t disappear. They were acquired at a fraction of their construction cost by carriers and investment vehicles that could now offer international bandwidth at prices that would have been unimaginable during the boom. The collapse of the speculative infrastructure bet produced, almost accidentally, the cheap international connectivity that made the global internet economically viable for the billions of users who would come online in the following decade. It was the same paradox as the NAPs: a commercial failure that generated an infrastructural legacy. The difference was one of scale. The NAPs had seeded the global IXP ecosystem. Global Crossing’s bankruptcy had priced the Internet for the world.

No Oppenheimer Moment

In the summer of 1945, as the Manhattan Project scientists prepared to test the first nuclear device at Trinity, New Mexico, several of them were already writing the warnings. Leo Szilard circulated a petition. Niels Bohr had already argued, unsuccessfully, for international control before the bomb was used. Robert Oppenheimer would spend the rest of his life in the complicated purgatory of a man who had built something he understood to be dangerous and said so, repeatedly and publicly, until the government stripped him of his security clearance for the trouble. The warnings did not prevent the arms race, the proliferation, or the decades of existential anxiety that followed. But they established, early and irreversibly, a framework of danger within which nuclear technology has been managed — imperfectly, incompletely, but managed nonetheless. The Non-Proliferation Treaty exists. The IAEA exists monitoring the level of nuclear risk globally. The Bulletin of Atomic Scientists still moves its clock a little closer to midnight at the end of each year. The guardrails are inadequate but they are there, and they are there because the architects of the technology screamed and the public pressured politicians to listen.

The Internet had no Oppenheimer moment. The men and women who built it — who designed the protocols, managed the academic commons, fought the peering wars, won and lost the mergers and aquistions — did not issue proclamations or warnings about the societal and consequences of what they were unleashing, if indeed they perceived any. They mostly didn’t believe they were unleashing anything dangerous or that might be used to cause injury and hurt. The protocol was open, non-proprietary, indifferent. It was a tool for sharing research. That it would restructure human cognition, destabilize democratic institutions, create new architectures of addiction and manipulation, and concentrate information power in the hands of a handful of platform companies was not something the academic founders foresaw — and by the time it was visible, the infrastructure was captured, the business models were entrenched, and the users were already dependent. There was no moment at which a critical mass of the internet’s architects stood up and said: we have built something that could go very wrong. There was only the accumulated silence of people who believed the technology was inherently benign, followed by the slow realization that it was not.

Artificial intelligence has been different, at least in its rhetoric. Stephen Hawking warned, in terms that could not have been clearer, that the development of full artificial intelligence could spell the end of the human race. Geoffrey Hinton, who won the Nobel Prize for the foundational work that made modern AI possible, resigned from Google in 2023 specifically to speak freely about the dangers of what he had spent his career building. The early AI safety movement produced manifestos, research agendas, and institutional frameworks with an urgency that the internet’s architects never felt. And yet the warnings appear to be producing roughly the same result as no warnings at all. The competitive dynamic between the United States and China has installed the same logic that drove the dot-com frenzy and the WorldCom acquisition spree: move fast, build first, worry later. The arms race has its own momentum, and precautionary instinct dissolves in its heat. Hinton warned. Then the models kept getting larger.

Which brings us, by a long road, to Australia and the United Kingdom introducing legislation protecting children from the dangers of the applications which would not have been possible without the Internet. Facebook, Twitter, and TikTok were unimagined before it, and their possible societal impact were mostly seen as beneficial as in empowering democratizing movements such as the Arab Spring. In fact, the resistance to its early adoption by the telephony carrier industry and government regulatory restrictions and the Internet’s zero-settlement mantra added to its cache. The arrival of the Internet, the unprecedented pace of its growth and technological innovation was also the sword with which to democratize the world.

Over the years a darker side emerged, software was developed to propagate over the net holding healthcare networks to ransom, stole money from everyone, and permitted the psychological torture of individuals including children, to touch on a few. In 2024 Australia passed legislation restricting children under sixteen from accessing social media platforms. The United Kingdom has moved in the same direction, tightening the Online Safety Act’s provisions around children’s access to applications and platforms. These measures are reasonable responses to documented harms — the evidence linking social media use to adolescent mental health deterioration is substantial and growing. They are also, in a deeper sense, a confession of institutional failure. We are reduced to legislating which applications children may use because we built a global communications infrastructure on the assumption that it would govern itself, handed it to commercial operators who optimized it for engagement rather than wellbeing, and then watched for three decades as it rewired the cognitive and social development of every generation that grew up inside it. The thousand points of light that the FARNET chairman invoked in that Ann Arbor conference room in 1995 did illuminate the world. They also, in ways none of us in that room fully grasped at the time, cast very long shadows.

The Internet was one of the greatest scientific and engineering ideas of the twentieth century not only for what it was, but also for the human ingenuity it enabled, perhaps the greatest practical realization of networked communication in human history. Much of its potential has been realized in ways that genuinely have transformed human life for the better — in access to knowledge, in the compression of distance, in the connections it has made possible between people who would otherwise never have found each other. None of that is trivial. But the challenges it has created are serious, deeply entrenched, and the architecture of the beast facilitates them in ways that were not anticipated or within the scope of electrical engineering to manage. With nuclear technology we saw the danger and built imperfect guardrails. With artificial intelligence we see the danger and the guardrails appear to be losing the race. With the Internet we built it, they came, thirty years later, still grappling with the negative consequences.

The children’s app restrictions in Australia and the United Kingdom are not the end of that story. They are instead the most recent footnote in the long reckoning with a scientific and technological revolution — the most consequential communications technology in human history, deployed without an Oppenheimer, managed without a treaty - indeed it’s ad hoc almost naive governance arrangements are still, in ways we are only beginning to measure, reshaping what it means to be human.

Authors note: The events presented here are recalled from the authors memory and personal records. As an employee of Sprint he supported the SprintLink Internet service and the International Connections Manager program of the NSF. He was the NSF Principal Investigator for the Sprint NAP after which he joined MCI leaving around the time of the failed BT merger.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Updated June 20, 2026.

Following outrage and outcry the OMB dictating NSF decisions has authorized a reversal of its earlier plans to scrap the system, but the fight against political interference in science policy is far from over. See AP News

“What’s happening with the US Ocean Observatories Initiative (OOI) is not unique, this is just one of a number of science facilities that is being dismantled at the present time. It seems to really mark the end of a commitment to basic scientific research — a commitment that has served this nation very well for the last 70 years.”

— Ed Dever, Oregon State University

Starting this month the National Science Foundation (NSF) will begin the dismantling of an autonomous ocean monitoring network

The NSF has initiated a “descoping” plan to dismantle all but one of the OOI, a 386 million network composed of nearly 1,000 advanced autonomous deep-sea instruments, buoys, gliders, and seafloor sensors and which cost roughly $39 million a year to operate. The network has provided continuous, real-time biological, chemical, geological, and physical ocean data since it went fully live in 2016. Originally engineered and funded to capture a continuous, 25-year baseline data series to track long-term global climate trends, it’s being prematurely shut down just a decade into its operation.

Infrastructure Slated for Extraction

According to an internal NSF framework and field updates from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, the shutdown covers almost all geographical nodes of the facility, barring a single exception. The timeline for removal is aggressive:

The Endurance Array (Pacific Northwest): Deployed off the coasts of Oregon and Washington to monitor the critical California Current ecosystem, upwelling, and hypoxia. Ships are entering the water this month (June 2026) to begin pulling major instruments.

The Global Irminger Sea Array (North Atlantic): Situated between Greenland and Iceland, this array is universally considered one of the most vital scientific tools on Earth for tracking the slowing of the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Current (AMOC) and measuring deep-ocean carbon dioxide absorption. It is scheduled for complete extraction by summer 2027.

The Global Station Papa Array (Gulf of Alaska / Northeast Pacific): Essential for tracking extreme weather patterns, marine heatwaves, and North Pacific ecosystem changes. Slated for complete removal by summer 2027.

The Coastal Pioneer Array (Mid-Atlantic Bight): Recently relocated off the coast of North Carolina to monitor cross-shelf heat and nutrient transport. It will be completely fished out of the Atlantic by mid-2027.

The Sole Survivor:

The OOI Regional Cabled Array—a fiber-optic seafloor network off the Pacific Northwest coast—is the only major asset scheduled to remain operational for the foreseeable future.

The Financial and Administrative Mechanism

While the NSF’s public statements use heavily buffered language—calling the move a “deliberate approach to smart life-cycle management” and a shift toward “nimbler, evolving scientific priorities”—the underlying mechanism is entirely financial.

The Trump administration’s Fiscal Year 2026 budget request proposed a staggering 80% funding cut to the OOI, choking its annual operating budget from $39 million down to roughly $8 million. Because the NSF must manage its portfolio within these strict executive constraints, the agency preemptively triggered the physical decommissioning of the arrays in late May 2026, executing the structural rollbacks before Congress has even finalized formal appropriations bills.

Immediate and Broad-Scale Scientific Tipping Points

The scientific community has expressed profound alarm, viewing this as a catastrophic interruption of the historical climate record. Oceanographers emphasize several immediate consequences:

Permanent Data Gaps: As oceanographers note, long-term environmental time series are valuable precisely because they are continuous. Once a data stream is interrupted, the gap is permanent; you cannot retrospectively go back and measure the water temperature or carbon absorption of a year you skipped.

Blinding Climate Forecasts: The removal of the Irminger Sea array directly undermines international efforts to calculate how close the global climate is to major tipping points, such as a full collapse of the AMOC.

Institutional Brain Drain: The arrays rely on highly specialized engineering and maintenance teams housed at premier oceanographic institutions (such as Woods Hole and Oregon State University). Defunding the infrastructure means dissolving these unique teams. If a future administration decides to rebuild the network, the specialized human capital will already be gone.

Collateral Damage to Other Agencies: The OOI network provides foundational field-verification data used by NASA to calibrate its advanced environmental satellites (such as the PACE and SWOT missions) and supports maritime domain modeling for the U.S. Navy.

Societal Impact and Political Pushback

The fallout has quickly spilled beyond academic circles into public commerce and legislative policy:

Impact on Fisheries: Local commercial fishing fleets have already begun logging formal complaints. Operators utilize real-time data from the arrays to track changes in salinity, temperature, and hypoxia zones to safely navigate and manage catch locations. Principal investigators reported receiving direct, worried inquiries from commercial fishermen when early array components went offline.

Political Condemnation: Key lawmakers have begun pushing back against the executive branch’s strategy. Maryland Senator Chris Van Hollen publicly lambasted the closure as a “shortsighted move” that severely damages scientific integrity while ultimately costing American taxpayers significantly more money in unmitigated climate damage down the road.

Climate Censorship Framework: Advocacy groups, such as End Climate Silence, are framing the OOI shutdown as a deliberate political effort to “blind the public.” This shutdown occurs concurrently with other highly controversial environmental policies enacted during this administration, including the EPA’s formal repeal of the landmark “Endangerment Finding” and the parallel closure of the National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR). Historians and advocates argue the administration’s policy operates under a clear, unscientific directive: if you prevent scientists from measuring climate change, you can claim it isn’t happening.

Last month the entire National Science Board was fired by the White House without reason. This follows decisions by the Office of Management and Budget to dramatically cut funding for the NSF and to relocate its headquarters to smaller facilities in Washington DC. The planning behind the dramatic retrenchment of American scientific research originates mostly from the Heritage Foundation’s infamous Project 2025. While the acronym “OOI” doesn’t appear explicitly in the Heritage’s 900-page Mandate for Leadership, the blueprint laid the exact policy tracks for its dismantling. Under Chapter 21, the document takes direct aim at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), explicitly calling to “Break Up NOAA” and label its operations as a primary driver of the “climate change alarm industry.” Crucially, the text demands that the administration “downsize the Office of Oceanic and Atmospheric Research” and mandates that the “preponderance of its climate-change research should be disbanded.” By zeroing in on the exact institutional frameworks, data clients, and funding streams that sustained the OOI, these directives provided the incoming administration with the explicit political mandate to pull the plug on the network—transforming a conservative policy proposal into the actual, physical decommissioning of our nation’s most vital deep-sea climate sensors.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

Author’s note: The following piece describes unfolding events as of June 2026, based on current policy trajectories, budget proposals, and reporting from sources including The New York Times, The Real News Network, Phys.Org, and the AIP. The claims regarding the National Science Board firing are drawn from Jacob Taylor’s May 1, 2026, reporting in AIP and are presented as reported, not as independently verified by this author.

For further reading:

The New York Times – Trump Administration to Dismantle Ocean Monitoring System

Ocean Observatories Initiative (OOI)

Hammerschlag, Annika, Scientists lose critical climate record as ocean observatory will go dark under Trump funding cuts, Phys.Org, Andrew Zinin editor, June 3, 2026

Taylor, Jacob, Administration Explains National Science Board Firing as Criticism Grows, AIP May 01, 2026

The National Nuclear Security Administration (NNSA) and the Department of Energy (DOE) have opened a public comment period on their Programmatic Environmental Impact Statement for plutonium pit production. If that sounds Orwellian in its obscurity, you’re right. The bureaucratic language conceals a fundamental question:

Does the United States need to renew its production for the first time since 1996 to manufacture more plutonium cores that are at the heart of modern nuclear weapons?

The Demon Core

In August 1945, physicist Harry Daghlian was conducting criticality experiments at Los Alamos Laboratory with a plutonium sphere when the tungsten carbide bricks he was stacking around it slipped. The resulting burst of radiation killed him within weeks. Eight months later, in May 1946, physicist Louis Slotin was demonstrating the same sphere to colleagues when his screwdriver slipped during a similar experiment, causing another supercritical reaction. Slotin died nine days later in agony. After claiming two lives, the six-kilogram plutonium sphere earned its grim nickname: the “demon core.” 1

The term “pit”—referring to the fissile core at the heart of a nuclear weapon—derives from its spherical shape and central position, much like a fruit pit. These pits, produced from weapons-grade plutonium-239 (not uranium-235, which is a separate fissile material), became the focus of intense production during the Cold War. The plutonium was manufactured primarily at the Hanford Site in Washington and later at the Savannah River Site in South Carolina, where uranium was irradiated in reactors and then chemically processed to extract plutonium.2

Today, the United States maintains approximately 15,000 plutonium pits in various stages of the weapons lifecycle, far exceeding the roughly 4,000 deployed warheads in the active stockpile.3 Recent studies by the JASON Defense Advisory Group confirm that pits have minimum lifespans of at least 100 years, with no evidence of plutonium aging that would compromise weapon reliability in the foreseeable future.4 Despite this technical assessment, the Department of Energy and the National Nuclear Security Administration propose producing at least 80 new pits annually by 2030—a goal the Union of Concerned Scientists argues is technically unnecessary, economically wasteful, and strategically destabilizing.5

Any required maintenance of the existing stockpile, including improvements to pit purity or manufacturing precision, can be accomplished at current production levels. More troubling, accelerating pit production risks triggering reciprocal responses from Russia and China, both of which closely monitor US nuclear modernization programs. The proposed expansion comes with an estimated price tag exceeding $20 billion, resources that could address genuine national security priorities rather than manufacturing components we don’t need for weapons we already have.6

The demon core killed two scientists before its deadly career ended by it being melted down for reuse. The question we face now is whether we will allow its legacy to drive us toward unnecessary renewed production when alternatives such as recycling from the existing stockpile are readily available and would be considerably less expensive.

The planned production of 80 new pits annually—intended for modernized land-based ICBMs, submarine-launched ballistic missiles, and air-delivered weapons—could be accomplished through pit reuse and remanufacturing from existing stocks.7 We are, after all, a nation that once recognized excess weapons-grade material as a paramount security threat: in the 1990s, the United States purchased 500 metric tons of highly enriched uranium from the dismantled Soviet arsenal and cooperated on plutonium disposition precisely because unsecured fissile material posed unacceptable proliferation risks.8 Now we propose to manufacture more, not because we need it, but because we can—a decision that threatens fiscal responsibility, global stability, and the very nonproliferation principles we once championed.

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What’s Actually at Stake

Plutonium pits are the fissile cores of nuclear weapons—the precisely engineered hollow spheres that, when explosively compressed, achieve the critical mass necessary for a nuclear chain reaction. The United States hasn’t produced pits at scale since the Rocky Flats facility in Colorado closed in 1989 following environmental and safety scandals. The NNSA now proposes increasing production to 80 pits annually at two sites: the Savannah River Site in South Carolina and Los Alamos National Laboratory in New Mexico.

The official justification is straightforward: the existing stockpile is aging, and pits must be replaced to maintain its stability. But this framing elides crucial questions. Recent studies, including from the government’s own scientists, assert that plutonium pits will likely remain reliable for a century or more—far longer than the weapons that house them. The Union of Concerned Scientists’ recent report documents how the aggressive production timeline is driven not by verified technical necessity but by ambitious modernization plans that would essentially rebuild the entire nuclear arsenal, though the justification for this is unstated and unclear.

The Environmental and Community Cost

The PEIS must address impacts on communities surrounding production sites, and the history here is sobering. Rocky Flats left a legacy of plutonium contamination, worker exposure, and billions in cleanup costs. Both Los Alamos and Savannah River have troubled histories of radioactive waste, groundwater contamination, and documented health impacts on workers and nearby residents.

The communities bearing these risks are rarely the ones making the decisions. Los Alamos sits upstream from predominantly Hispanic and Native American communities in northern New Mexico who have already endured decades of contamination. Savannah River neighbors some of South Carolina’s poorest counties. This is environmental justice in its starkest form: concentrated risks imposed on vulnerable populations in the name of national security.

The PEIS process is one of the few mechanisms that allow public input into nuclear weapons decisions, which are typically made behind classification barriers. It’s imperfect—the administration can proceed even over objections—but it creates a public record and forces technical justifications into the open. More importantly, it’s an opportunity for the scientific community to insist that policy claims about “necessity” and “safety” meet basic evidentiary standards.

This matters beyond the immediate question of pit production. We’re watching the infrastructure of nuclear being completely rebuilt with minimal public debate. China is expanding its arsenal; Russia has suspended arms control agreements; and the entire framework of strategic nuclear weapons restraint built over decades is at the point of collapse. The response can’t simply be a massive increase in nuclear weapons capacity—that’s the thinking that gave us 70,000 warheads at the Cold War’s peak. We need informed public engagement about what actual security requires.

The Scientific Community’s Responsibility

Scientists and engineers built this arsenal, and we bear particular responsibility for its consequences. That means not reflexively deferring to security establishments, but asking hard questions: Are these weapons necessary? Are the claimed lifetimes of existing pits accurately assessed? Are environmental and health risks being candidly described? Are there alternative approaches to maintaining deterrence without a massive buildout of new production infrastructure?

The Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS) is coordinating resources to help the public engage meaningfully with these questions. Their Introduction to Plutonium Pits provides essential technical background. Their radiation and health explainers, developed by public health expert Dr. Chanese Forté, give an accessible grounding in the real impacts of plutonium production. Most importantly, they’re building a network of people committed to informed participation in the 2026 comment period.

What You Can Do

1. Educate yourself. The technical details matter—bureaucracies count on public eyes glazing over at terms like “plutonium pit production capacity.” Don’t let complexity become a shield against scrutiny.

2. Sign UCS’s comment pledge. This signals your intent to participate in the formal comment period and helps build the visible public engagement that can’t be dismissed as routine.

3. Share these resources. Most people are unaware that this decision is coming, yet its implications affect everyone. Nuclear weapons policy shouldn’t be made in technocratic isolation. The links below provide information created by Kansas City PeaceWorks to guide you through the process of creating your submission to PEIS:

   Your chance to say NO to Plutonium Pits

   Make a Public Comment on the Plutonium Pit Production Programmatic Environmental Impact Statement (PEIS)

   The deadline for PEIS Comments is: July 16

4. Prepare substantive comments for 2026. Generic objections carry little weight; specific technical, environmental, or policy questions force serious responses.

The infrastructure we build now—both physical and political—will constrain choices for decades. That makes 2026 not just another bureaucratic milestone, but a genuine decision point about what kind of nuclear future we’re choosing. The scientific community helped create these weapons. We owe it to everyone living with the consequences to help ensure their ongoing management meets the highest standards of technical honesty and public accountability.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

See also:

The B61-12 nuclear weapon

The B61-12 has quietly become one of the most ubiquitous nuclear weapons in the Western arsenal. Originally conceived as a life-extension program for older B61 gravity bombs, the weapon emerged as a far more capable system, combining variable yields with a precision-guided tail kit and compatibility with a wide range of specially modified aircraft including the F-35. Today it forms the backbone of the US’s NATO’s air-delivered nuclear weapons with bombs deployed or assigned to bases across Europe under NATO nuclear-sharing arrangements. As Hans Kristensen of the FAS and other analysts have noted, the combination of improved accuracy and dual-capable aircraft has significantly enhanced the military flexibility of the weapon.

Although the B61-12 is primarily associated with Europe, its significance extends globally. Its modernization reflects a broader trend toward more adaptable and survivable nuclear forces. The B61-12 illustrates how nuclear competition increasingly centers not only on numbers of warheads, but on precision, delivery systems, and operational flexibility allowing integration with dual-capable delivery systems. More than half a century after the original B61 entered service, its latest variant remains a central element of contemporary nuclear strategy. For a fuller description of the weapon system read: Hans M. Kristensen, B61-12: New Military Capability, FAS

Fly Past

The first time I saw a Missing Man formation fly-past was on a Pearl Harbor Day when I was in Hawaii. I’ve always gone crazy for air displays, aerobatic or fly-past, but this was something especially poignant, and I felt a pit in my stomach as one aircraft climbed vertically out of the formation to represent the missing man — tribute to the pilots who did not return. Every Memorial Day since, I try to catch a fly-past in honor of those who sacrificed their lives on our behalf. With binoculars in open fields, in sports bars with super-wide screens — it’s become a thing for me. I’ve been an American citizen for a quarter century now, and it’s moments like the Blue Angels’ Missing Man fly-past that fill me with pride for a nation that has freely sacrificed so much for everyone’s freedom. Memorial Day is mostly a barbecue and a long weekend of leisure, and that’s to be appreciated too, though it will never quite stand in for the fly-past, which embraces the occasion so completely in such a short moment.

The Man with the Insulting Guns

Arriving in Hawaii from New Zealand, where he had inaugurated the FBI’s first standalone office in Wellington, Director Kash Patel had already accomplished a small diplomatic feat. On July 31, in a series of meetings with the country’s top security officials, he presented 3-D-printed pistols mounted on challenge-coin display stands as ceremonial gifts. The recipients were Police Commissioner Richard Chambers, Andrew Hampton, director-general of the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service, and Andrew Clark, director-general of the Government Communications Security Bureau — the three most senior law-enforcement and intelligence figures in the country, handed plastic guns at a ribbon-cutting.

New Zealand classifies pistols as restricted weapons. Possessing one requires a special permit beyond a standard firearms license, and the country’s gun laws were tightened in the aftermath of the March 2019 attacks on two Christchurch mosques, in which a lone gunman shot fifty-one Muslim worshippers to death during Friday prayers, having legally amassed his arsenal of semi-automatic weapons in the months before. The country’s response to the massacre was swift and bipartisan: within weeks, Parliament had banned most semi-automatics and instituted a national buyback. New Zealand does not have a culture in which a firearm in everyday public space is normal; if anyone were seen carrying one, the police would be called. Front-line officers there, by long tradition, don’t carry sidearms on patrol — they leave them locked in their vehicles.

A Melt Down

Commissioner Chambers sought legal advice the day after receiving his. The Firearms Safety Authority and the Police Armoury examined the replicas and determined that, although inoperable as presented, they could be made functional with what an armoury team leader described in an internal email as “minimal skills and common ‘handyperson’ tools.” The model, police documents later revealed, was the Maverick PG22 — a working revolver designed by 3-D-printing hobbyists, modeled on a brightly colored Nerf toy of the same name, and identified by New Zealand’s police union earlier in the year as among the most common 3-D-printed guns being seized from criminals on the street.

The FBI Director’s commemorative offering to the security chiefs of an allied nation was, in essence, a homemade firearm derived from a children’s toy, of a kind New Zealand police had been confiscating from gangs.

On Chambers’s instruction, the guns were retained and then destroyed. The destruction took place on September 25. Patel’s spokesperson declined to comment.

Odd behavior from a visiting American official doesn’t cause much of a stir in New Zealand, where people are polite about that sort of thing, and the public statements from Wellington were measured. But things were to turn out differently in the domain of Kīlauea.

Sacred Geography

The wreck of the USS Arizona occupies a unique place in American memory, serving not simply as a monument to the attack on Pearl Harbor but as a living cemetery that continues to bridge past and present. Resting where it sank in the shallow waters of Pearl Harbor, the battleship remains an immediate and visceral connection to December 7, 1941 — the “date which will live in infamy.”

From time to time, traces of engine oil still seep up from its interior — “black tears” that give the haunting impression that the ship itself continues to grieve for its crew more than eighty years after the attack. Its meaning deepened further in 1982, when surviving crew members were permitted to have their cremated remains placed within the hull by Navy divers, reuniting shipmates across generations and transforming the wreck into an active sanctuary of remembrance. In this way, the Arizona stands at the intersection of two distinct forms of national commemoration. Pearl Harbor Day recalls the shock and vulnerability that forced President Roosevelt’s hand and brought the United States into a global war that would cost millions of lives.

The wreck of this battleship, together with its accessible location in the shallows of the harbor, forms a tomb honoring those killed in a single catastrophic morning. Memorial Day, by contrast, honors all Americans lost in military service across the nation’s history, from the Revolutionary War to modern conflicts. The Arizona embodies both memories at once: on December 7 it symbolizes the catalyst that changed the world, while on Memorial Day it becomes one sacred coordinate within the wider landscape of American sacrifice for everyone’s freedom. The shallow water does not conceal the tragedy; rather, it preserves it in plain sight, keeping the memory immediate, personal, and enduring.

The VIP Snorkel

Into these waters the FBI Director arrived bearing snorkel and fins.

The Associated Press reported on May 14 that Director Patel had taken what government emails described as a “VIP snorkel” around the USS Arizona during his Hawaii visit the previous August. The outing was coordinated by the military, was not on Patel’s public schedule, and was unmentioned in the FBI’s news releases at the time. The Navy confirmed the swim only after the AP obtained the emails through a public records request. A Navy spokesperson, Capt. Jodie Cornell, told reporters that participants had been briefed not to touch the wreck and reminded of its status as “the final resting place / tomb for hundreds of service members.” That a brief was felt necessary is its own kind of testimony: the men who needed reminding included the head of the FBI.

According to a former government diver who spoke to AP on condition of anonymity, no FBI director going back to at least 1993 had ever snorkeled at the memorial. Marine archaeologists dive there to survey the wreck’s condition. National Park Service crews dive there for the same reason. A select group from the Paralyzed Veterans of America, including the Marine veteran Hack Albertson, dives there annually to check on the ship’s structural integrity. These are the people who know the Arizona. They were not the people in the water with Director Patel.

The military divers and security personnel who accompanied him into the water were there to protect the Director, not to interpret the wreck. The composition of the escort told you what the outing was, whatever the FBI’s spokesman would later call it. A genuinely historical tour, led by the people who actually study the ship, would have looked different. This outing was named in the government’s own emails: a VIP snorkel.

Hack Albertson told the AP that VIP snorkeling at the memorial was inappropriate. “It’s like having a bachelor party at a church,” he said. “It’s hallowed ground. It needs to be treated with the solemnity it deserves.”

The institutional response was to call the criticism “stupid.” Ben Williamson, the FBI’s assistant director for public affairs, wrote on X that the AP was attempting to spin an invitation from the Commanding General of Indo-Pacom “as a party or vacation, which is so stupid.” It was, Williamson added, “a historical tour to honor heroes who died on the USS Arizona — not a party.” The Navy, for its part, described Patel’s outing as “not an anomaly.”

The defense was bolstered by Christopher Miller, the former acting Secretary of Defense, who had himself snorkeled the Arizona during the first Trump administration. Miller told AP that when he was invited to swim, regional military officials had told him the tour was reserved for “special occasions and for special visitors, of which you’re one.” He found the experience meaningful. “It was a very somber and meaningful event,” Miller said. “It was a historical tour. It wasn’t a recreational thing.” The defense, in other words, came from a man defending his own past swim alongside Patel’s — an institutional flattery passing forward across administrations, each special visitor confirming the next one’s specialness.

Stacey Young, founder of Justice Connection — a network of former federal prosecutors and agents who advocate for the Department of Justice’s independence — placed the swim inside the larger pattern. “It fits a pattern of Director Patel getting tangled up in unseemly distractions — this time at a site commemorating the second deadliest attack in U.S. history — instead of staying laser-focused on keeping Americans safe.”

The March of Folly

Barbara Tuchman, in The March of Folly, defined the term with care. To qualify, conduct had to be contrary to the self-interest of the actor, an available alternative had to have been identified at the time, and the conduct had to have been undertaken by a group rather than an individual. Patel’s swim meets all three tests. The Navy’s safety briefing was the alternative, spelled out in writing before he got in the water — a written reminder that this was a tomb, that the dead were beneath him, that he was not to touch them. The institutional response — the FBI calling the criticism “stupid,” Miller’s recursive defense of his own privilege, the Navy’s bland “not an anomaly” — is the doubling-down Tuchman documented across centuries of state behavior.

The folly here is not that one man made a poor judgment in the water. The folly is that the institutions around him made the swim possible, named it a “VIP snorkel” in writing, briefed him not to touch the dead, and then insisted afterward that this was somber and meaningful and historical and not at all a party.

The Missing Man

Taps asks only that a single bugler strike the notes truly; the Missing Man formation asks no aerobatic virtuosity. Yet both, by the simplicity of means, have become universally emblematic of loss. Both are brief, leaving an enduring sense of something lost that need not have been. As the four aircraft approach in tight formation, one pulls up and climbs steeply away, directly above the place of commemoration, leaving a gap in the sky as the others continue past the people below. It is over in seconds, but the empty space stays with each observer — which is why the formation has become so fitting a goodbye to those who deserve to be remembered. I have visited the Arizona, and I have watched the Missing Man climb out of the sky. I will look up for it again this Memorial Day as I do each year.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

History records few tragedies more profound than the systematic ransacking of the Library of Alexandria and the murder of the mathematician-astronomer Hypatia — an archetype of a “self-inflicted dark age,” in which a civilizations chose ideological purity and literalist zealotry over the cumulative genius of humanity1 The destruction of the ancient world’s foremost research hub was a catastrophe of ideological schism, in which universal knowledge was viewed not as a treasure but as a threat.

Today, a strikingly similar pursuit of strategic auto-iconoclasm is unfolding in America, motivated by a modern ideological schism rooted in political creationism.2

The Wedge: From the Tower of Babel to Project 2025

The philosopher of science Robert T. Pennock anatomised this movement two decades ago in Tower of Babel: The Evidence Against the New Creationism.3 Pennock argued that “Intelligent Design” (ID) was engineered as a “big tent” strategy — deliberately ecumenical language designed to unite “Young Earth” creationists, “Old Earth” creationists, and “theistic” evolutionists against a common materialist enemy, whilst keeping the underlying religious commitments rhetorically deniable. The Babel image cut both ways: it was at once the creationists’ own founding myth — confusion of tongues as divine punishment for hubris — as well as an accurate description of their tactical method, sowing confusion in the scientific conversation rather than attempting to win it on the merits.

Pennock’s analysis was vindicated in court. In Kitzmiller v. Dover (December 2005), a federal judge (appointed by George W. Bush) ruled that ID was religion, not science, and could not be taught in public-school biology classrooms; the judgment famously described ID as creationism in a “cheap tuxedo.” But the more telling document is the Discovery Institute’s internal “Wedge Strategy” memorandum, leaked in 1999, which set out the movement’s twenty-year programme in unambiguous prose: to reverse what it called the stifling dominance of the materialist worldview and to replace it with a science consonant with theistic convictions.

That memorandum is the textual link between the cultural skirmishes of the 1990s and the federal demolition of 2025. The wedge has now been driven all the way home.

From Pseudoscience to Policy

While ID failed as science, the movement adapted with considerable tactical sophistication, shifting from the impossible task of proving a creator to the easier work of manufacturing doubt about proven science — vaccines as the supposed cause of autism, fluoride as a neurotoxin, mRNA platforms as instruments of mass harm [4, 5]. This anti-science sentiment found a powerful home in the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025 [6-8]. By appropriating the rhetoric of “school choice,” “parental rights,” and “academic freedom,” the movement transformed a failed pseudoscientific theory into a political weapon for undermining secular expertise and bypassing scientific consensus [5, 7, 9]. Project 2025 calls for the elimination of the federal Department of Education, the redirection of public funds to private institutions teaching creationism as fact, and the framing of foundational science — evolution, climate, vaccination — as mere dogma [7].

The Endless Frontier Unmade

The magnitude of what is being dismantled becomes legible only by returning to the document on which the entire post-war American scientific enterprise was built. In July 1945, Vannevar Bush — director of the wartime Office of Scientific Research and Development — delivered Science, The Endless Frontier to President Truman. The report argued that federal support for basic university research was inseparable from military strength, public health, and economic competitiveness. The NIH and NSF now being decapitated are direct institutional descendants of that report. So is DARPA, established in 1958 in response to Sputnik, which seeded ARPANET, GPS, stealth aviation, advanced materials, and the foundational machine-learning work now underpinning every American technology company. So is the semiconductor industry that the CHIPS Act is presently attempting to repatriate: there is no Silicon Valley without the Cold War defence procurement that built it through the 1950s and 1960s.

The paradox is acute. The same administration cutting NIH and NSF is simultaneously expanding the Pentagon budget and demanding technological supremacy over China. These objectives are incompatible. The hydrogen bomb, the GPS satellite, and the mRNA vaccine emerged from the same federal research pipeline. Stockpile stewardship since 1992 — the scientific basis on which the United States certifies its nuclear deterrent without testing — depends entirely on the university-laboratory infrastructure now being starved: ASCI-class computing, the National Ignition Facility, materials science under extreme conditions, and the training pipeline for the physicists who replace those who retire. One cannot verify a treaty or maintain a credible deterrent with a hollowed-out basic-research base.

The Medical Front

If the dismantling of physical science compromises long-term security, the assault on medical research compromises immediate human survival, both domestically and globally. The installation of vaccine sceptics at the apex of the Department of Health and Human Services has converted the autism-vaccine canard — repeatedly falsified since Andrew Wakefield’s retracted 1998 Lancet paper — into operational federal policy [X]. The MMR vaccine, one of the most thoroughly studied medical interventions in history, has been subjected to politicised review, and confidence in childhood immunisation has eroded to the point that measles, declared eliminated from the United States in 2000, returned in 2025 in outbreaks of a scale not seen in a generation [X].

The damage radiates outward. The National Institutes of Health budget collapse — from roughly $47 billion to $27 billion — has terminated over 2,300 grants and 160 active clinical trials, including programmes in cancer immunotherapy, Alzheimer’s disease, and the mRNA platforms that proved themselves during the COVID-19 pandemic and that constitute the most promising avenue for vaccines against HIV, malaria, tuberculosis, and the next pandemic pathogen [10]. The National Science Foundation has eliminated 75% of its academic “rotator” positions, severing the connection between the federal science apparatus and the university research base [10]. A 15% cap on indirect cost reimbursements has financially starved private universities — using the pretexts of antisemitism, diversity, and “wokism” — forcing the closure of high-maintenance laboratories that can no longer cover their basic operational expenses [10, 11].

The global consequences are graver still. The American withdrawal from the World Health Organization, the dismantling of USAID, and the gutting of PEPFAR — the most successful public-health programme in history, credited with saving over twenty-five million lives since 2003 [X] — have left the global health architecture without its largest donor and its most capable scientific partner. The polio eradication endgame, within sight after four decades of effort, has been thrown into doubt [X]. Pandemic surveillance networks built painstakingly since SARS in 2003 have lost their American node. And vaccine hesitancy, like vaccine confidence, is contagious across borders: an American president denying the safety of MMR licenses the same denial in Lagos, Manila, and Kyiv. The downstream death toll of these decisions will not be tallied for years, but the actuarial mathematics is not in dispute.

The Reverse Migration

This modern ransacking of the intellectual commons is actively forfeiting the scientific prowess on which American global standing has rested [2]. Just as Hypatia’s death ended a continuous lineage of mathematical and astronomical teaching at Alexandria, the present dismantling has triggered a brain drain — a 14% exodus of the federal STEM workforce, more than 10,100 PhD-trained experts [12, 13]. Early-career researchers are departing for Canada, Europe, the Middle East, and the Asia-Pacific. The United States is exporting its next generation of innovation [13, 14].

The historical mirror is exact and painful. In the 1930s, the persecution of Jewish and dissenting scientists under National Socialism drove Einstein, Fermi, Bethe, von Neumann, Szilard, Wigner, and Teller — among many others — to American shores. That refugee influx, supplemented after the war by Operation Paperclip, gave the United States the human capital that won the war and built the Endless Frontier. The current migration runs the film in reverse. The receiving countries — through enhanced research visa schemes, expanded ERC funding in Europe, and the successor programmes to China’s Thousand Talents initiative — understand precisely what is being offered to them.

The centre of gravity has shifted accordingly. Chinese research spending crossed the $1 trillion threshold in 2026, reaching effective parity with the United States for the first time [13]. This was not inevitable. It is a chosen outcome.

The Missing Generation

What is being created is not a “gap” in the sense of Mendel’s thirty-four-year wait for recognition — a delay in acknowledging work already complete. What is being created is the severing of the training pipeline itself: postdocs not trained, principal investigators not mentored, instruments not built, collaborations not begun. The damage will compound across decades, because science is generational before it is institutional. A laboratory closed in 2025 is a problem; a generation of biologists, physicists, and physicians who never learned to run one is a civilisational wound.

The Library of Alexandria did not burn in a day, and its loss was not measured in scrolls but in the centuries of darkness that followed. The present dismantling will be measured the same way — not in the immediate ledger of cancelled grants but in the diseases not cured, those tens of thousands whose deaths will be directly attributable to the cancellation of medical aid and food, and the deterrents not maintained, the discoveries not made, and the generation of American scientists who, having watched their country choose ideology over inquiry, took their training and skills elsewhere.

© 2026 Farooq Hussain

This is the second part of the Ariadne’s Dispatches, on the dismissal of the National Science Board. The first part can be at the link below: