society

Freedom and the Unloved

Imagine you could go back in time tens of thousands of years, to a time that represents the vast majority of human existence as a species. You find yourself alone in the wilderness, self-sufficient, when a band of hunter-gatherers spots you. What happens next?

Assuming they don’t kill you, they are likely to offer you a gift.

This seems paradoxical. To a modern person like you, a gift is a gesture of genuine hospitality—something you can accept and then continue living your independent life, perhaps trading with these people occasionally. However, in this ancient world, nothing could be further from the truth. For this world is ruled by kinship, and to engage peacefully with you means that you must be their relative somehow. The gift is an expression of ‘love,’ traditionally understood: to refuse it is to insult your brothers and sisters; to accept it is to enter into debt for the love received.

Indeed, in this world, there is no such thing as freedom as you understand it. You are either kin—bound by reciprocal debt and stories of blood relation—or you are something else entirely—a god or an evil spirit. So, naturally, you accept the gift. And then they begin to search for who your relatives might be, or invent some for you. Perhaps they invite you to a ritual dance, where you will be initiated and given a proper identity. You will be a brother, a daughter, or perhaps a husband and father. But you will not be ‘free.’ There is not even a word for it.

The Unloved

Fast forward to about 4,000 years ago. You land in a place no longer populated by nomadic bands, but by larger tribes of farmers and herders. Now, you can refuse the gift—and live—but at the cost of becoming another exploited animal.

This Indo-European context is where the root pri- arises, which forms the etymological foundation of words like ‘free.’ As before, pri- means to be loved and tied to your kin, not independence. However, now it becomes necessary to name this condition, because for the first time, there is something to compare it with: slavery.

With slavery, a new category of human emerged: the unloved—those not belonging to a tribe or family, but captured in war or by conquest. Slavery was not an unfortunate byproduct of civilization, but the other way around: it was the condition that enabled the growth of cities and empires. It allowed societies to expand beyond the limits of love, to extract labor from those who did not require respect or reciprocity. People like you.

Hence, as a slave, you helped build an empire, such as Egypt or Persia, where the concept of freedom began to evolve into something more transactional, something you might achieve one day. By becoming ‘free,’ you were restored to a place of belonging. You could accept the gift of marriage and start a family within one of the local tribes that paid tribute to the Emperor or the Pharaoh. And so you remained in debt—both to your relatives and to your symbolic Father.

The Unloved, Loved

In Ancient Greece, the concept of freedom took a definitive turn. Consider what two Spartans—Sperthias and Bulis—told a Persian general who offered them comfort and favor under the Great King:

You know well how to be a slave, but you, who have never tasted freedom (eleutheria), do not know whether it is sweet or not. Were you to taste it, you would not advise us to fight for it with spears—but with axes.
(Herodotus, Histories 7.135)

There is so much new in this passage. First, the Spartans are refusing a gift and telling the general—not an actual slave—that he is, effectively, a slave for accepting it. Second, they are inviting him to taste something different, which they call eleutheria. This is a gesture of recognition: if the general felt as they do, he would act differently. And third, this feeling is defined precisely as not being ruled.

This defiance of traditional authority changes how your Greek masters relate to you. Imagine you end up serving a father alongside his wife, children, and other slaves. This man is eleutheros, a freeborn Athenian. Again, this means he belongs in the city: he is able to speak and vote because he was born legitimately to Athenian parents. But it also means that no other man rules over him like a father.

So, one day, this man decides to free you. Now, you are not returning to a state of belonging—to being ‘loved.’ That kind of belonging is as degrading as the Persian general’s condition. Instead, there is a recognised state of individuality, however imperfect. You remain bound in some ways to your master, but as a freedman, you are someone Athenian men identify with. You are valued and given a place in Athenian society.

The same is true for the metic—a freeborn Hellene who does not belong in Athens, but who is accepted for their contributions, perhaps as a tradesman or craftsman. The polis is not an extended household or a tribe. It is a public space where lineage begins to dissolve, where citizens are held together not by descent but by law, debate, and mutual visibility. Something fundamental has shifted. For the first time in human experience, freedom as liberation no longer excludes you from the circle of love and recognition. You can now be unbound without being cast out.

The State and its Blood Ties

Moving to Finland and acquiring Finnish nationality were, for me, decisions I made freely, choosing my own path as an individual. However, when I notified my country of origin, it didn’t take it very well. Spain gave me an ultimatum: sign a declaration of loyalty to the fatherland or lose my nationality.

That’s right — according to Spanish law (Article 24.1 of the Civil Code), citizens who acquire a foreign nationality such as the Finnish must declare, within three years, their intention to retain Spanish nationality, or else they’ll lose it. In other words, Spain treats my decision not as that of a free and responsible adult entering into social contracts — as claimed by the liberal spirit of its Constitution — but as the betrayal of a son abandoning his parents, or a married man abandoning his wife. This revealed something important about our institutions.

As can be seen in that same article of the Civil Code, Spain tolerates dual nationality with many Latin American countries. This is due to historical ties that go back to conquest and colonization — essentially, an extended family forged by baptism and the sword. Spain also tolerates dual nationality with Portugal, though in this case for reasons of neighborhood, culture, and religious affinity. But my acquiring Finnish nationality seemed to Spain like marrying outside the family. Finland, after all, belongs to the European Union, a union of liberal democracies inspired by the ideals of the French Revolution. Spain’s reaction, however, seemed closer to the mentality of the Ancien Régime, clinging to a sense of dynastic loyalty rather than embracing the contractual freedom of modern citizenship.

To add irony to injury, Spain automatically claims my daughter as Spanish — a child born in Finland to a Finnish mother — while threatening to disown me, the very one who gives the child her “Spanish blood.” This reveals the depth of this logic of kinship: to be a son or a citizen is fundamentally a contract imposed by nature — a threefold contradiction in terms.

Historical Origins of the Family-State

For most of human history, individuality was unthinkable. People were subjects of gods and rulers, and before that, they were children of their clan or family. The Enlightenment began to challenge these inherited authorities, dismantling divine kingship and the dominance of the Church. But even Enlightenment thinkers, although they imagined the citizen as an adult capable of signing existential contracts, could not fully break away from this old legacy. The state proposed by Rousseau and others remained, in many ways, an expanded household.

Rousseau’s philosophy is filled with this psychological tension between family and individual. On one hand, Rousseau imagined a kind of natural anarchy as the true condition of man. He saw early humans as solitary, self-sufficient beings, free from the family obligations that would later alienate them. Yet at the same time, Rousseau proposed a solution that was, paradoxically, a return to the very structure he seemed to critique. His concept of the “general will” was not a community of freely associating individuals, but a moral collective, a reinvented family. He effectively asked people to give up their individual freedom and dissolve themselves into the will of the collective, promising that in doing so they would recover their true liberty.

This tension began to resolve itself when, in 1793, a thinker like William Godwin, writing in the wake of the French Revolution, articulated the first formal expression of anarchism. Godwin asked the obvious question: if we are truly adults, why do we remain under the parental authority of Father or Mother State? Why should we stay married to someone we never chose? Godwin extended his critique of the state to a critique of marriage itself, recognizing that both are institutions that impose an arbitrary and visceral loyalty, even when they appear to be based on a contract.

In a way, this was merely the latest chapter in a deeper and longer historical struggle: the gradual and relentless questioning of the family, from the divine authority of the Church challenged by the Reformation, to the fall of kings, and finally to the state itself.

The Test of Experience

Today, for most people, life seems to unfold within a legitimate and modern framework of nation-state. They feel part of an existence that appears contractual, rational, one that — in theory — has left behind the arbitrariness of the past: the tyranny of kings, the impositions of the Church, or the forced bonds of family lineage. But this illusion quickly fades the moment a man — or a virus — puts the system to the test.

When I decided to acquire Finnish nationality, I did so as an adult seeking happiness, but also with the desire to break these historical chains. Yet in the eyes of the Spanish state, and in part my own parents, this was seen as a betrayal: as if, by becoming the “child” of another nation, I had also become the “husband” of another home, deserting the exclusive bond that my ancestors had intended to maintain with me and my descendants.

The parallel with Godwin’s critique of marriage is striking. He did not reject the free bond between people, but rather the institutionalization that turns spouses into each other’s exclusive property — just as states turn their citizens into the exclusive children of one “fatherland.” In both cases, absolute loyalty is demanded, and signing other contracts is condemned as an unforgivable infidelity.

And so, almost ironically, my action aligns with the ideal of freedom that Godwin and Wollstonecraft defended over two hundred years ago. Clearly, this is not a rejection of cooperation or human bonds, but a refusal to let those bonds be dictated by a hypocritical ideal of kinship and “nature.” My choice to marry and naturalize in Finland was, at heart, a practical affirmation that the truest bonds do not spring from blood or coercion.

Alice in Academia

(Alice walks past a grand yet imposing university building, a quiet confusion settling over her. Knowledge feels locked away. The experts know things she doesn’t. She hears claims that shape the world—about health, the climate, society—but when she tries to understand them, she finds only barriers. It is as if they are guarding something…

A breeze stirs. A figure steps forward from the shadows, an old man in a simple robe, eyes wise and knowing. He smiles.)

Old man: You are right to wonder. Knowledge should not be kept behind walls. But it was not always this way.

Alice: Who are you?

Old man: A seeker of truth. Long ago, I founded a place where knowledge was not meant to be hidden, but revealed. A place where knowledge was not a tool of power, but a result of asking the right questions.

Alice: (hesitant) You founded… a university?

Old man: Not a university as you know it. It was called Ἀκαδημία (Academia). And do you know after whom it was named?

Alice: No.

Old man: A man called Academus. He was not a ruler, nor a scholar, but he did something great—he revealed a secret.

Alice: What secret?

Old man: Theseus, the King of Athens, had abducted a child—Helen—long before she became the cause of the Trojan war. Theseus hid Helen away within his domain, in the stronghold of Aphidnae, intending to keep her until she was old enough to marry. But Academus, an ordinary Athenian, did not keep the king’s secret. He told her brothers where the child was, and by revealing this, he saved Athens from destruction.

Alice: He betrayed the king?

Old man: He did. But he was loyal to the truth.

(Alice looks at him closely now, realization dawning.)

Alice: …You are Plato, aren’t you?

Plato: (smiling) At your service.

Alice: And you built the Academy on the land of Academus because…

Plato: Because knowledge should reveal, not conceal. My Academy was meant to un-cover, to seek a-letheia (ἀλήθεια), literally, ‘un-forgetting’ or ‘un-concealment.’ The word comes from lēthē (λήθη), meaning ‘forgetfulness’ or ‘hiddenness,’ with the prefix a- (ἀ-) meaning ‘not.’

So, aletheia is not just ‘truth’ in the modern sense—which is often more akin to doxa (δόξα), or to correctness (orthotēs). Aletheia is the act of bringing something into the light, making the unknown—and the repressed—known.

Alice: But that’s not how universities are now. They feel… closed. Controlled.

Plato: Because they have been taken over. They no longer stand apart from power; they serve it.

Alice: So instead of being like Academus, revealing what’s hidden, modern academia protects it?

Plato: Yes. Academics are not supposed to betray the rulers—they keep their secrets.

Alice: Then where does truth come from now?

(Plato’s eyes gleam, and he steps back into the wind.)

Plato: From those who still dare to uncover it.

(Alice stands alone, the wind whispering around her. The great halls of the university look different now, less like temples of wisdom and more like walls keeping something—or someone—inside.)

The matrix of “money”

Imagine a simple scenario. Producer A meets Person B, who offers an item called “money” in exchange for A’s bread. At first glance, everything seems fair and straightforward. The item works as a medium of exchange, facilitating the trade between A and B. For simplicity, let’s define money this way, as most economists do: an item that enables the exchange of goods and services.

But what happens when A encounters Person C, who offers a different item? Let’s say Person C’s item is from another society or jurisdiction—a dollar instead of a euro, for example. This introduces a critical observation: these items are not neutral. They represent claims on resources made by particular groups of people. In essence, these items are mechanisms to divert resources towards a political centre. The difference between B’s and C’s items illustrates a fundamental inequity: there is no inherent reason why these items should differ, except to benefit one society or nation at the expense of the other.

Now, let’s consider an alternative scenario. What if Person C offers an item that has no cultural or societal mark at all? This item is not a promise of reciprocity from a specific group but instead represents something that “has been made” already by nature—for example, a commodity like gold is akin to bread. Unlike B’s or C’s earlier items, which are tied to societal agreements or promises, this new item is not a symbol representing resources but something akin to the resources themselves.

Money versus credit

Money, if we reserve the term for something that already has economic value, cannot be conflated with tokens that are mere promises of economic value. The two types of items should not be referred to by the same term.

Money shares a key quality with bread: both are finite and difficult to obtain. Bread embodies labour and natural resources, while objects like cowrie shells, precious metals or, amazingly, bitcoins, reflect a similar connection to effort and scarcity. When Person A trades bread for money proper, the exchange is balanced because both items have real economic value.

However, what if the token offered by Person B or C is not tied to reality but instead represents desired, future “economic” value? Credit is fundamentally different. It is a claim on a good or service that does not yet exist. Credit can be created in unlimited quantities at little to no cost by the issuer. Unlike bread or money, credit does not require effort equivalent to baking bread or finding gold.

“The root of all evil”

When A accepts so-called “money” (credit) as payment, the transaction becomes asymmetrical. A is trading something real, finite, and already made for something abstract. If A accepts this exchange, they are effectively trusting that the promise will eventually be fulfilled. But in doing so, A has already surrendered their bread to someone who has contributed nothing of equivalent scarcity or effort.

This asymmetry reveals a deeper issue. By conflating credit with money, those who control credit—essentially governments—gain an unfair advantage. They can create claims on real, finite resources without contributing real value in return. This makes “money” the “root of all evil.” It is the conflation of money with debt-based promises that allows those in power to exploit you without your noticing.

The Matrix

At first glance, Producer A’s transaction with Person B seems hunky-dory. A does not question the fact that he lives in Europe, where “money” is the euro. It feels natural to trade bread for something that serves as a medium of exchange, especially if the item facilitates trade without immediate complications. However, this unquestioning acceptance hides the critical issue at the heart of the system.

The conflation of credit and money creates endless claims on limited resources, fueling overproduction, resource exploitation, and conflicts over resource control. It also concentrates power in the hands of credit issuers, typically governments and those connected to them. Meanwhile, producers exchanging tangible, finite goods are deceived into accepting promises as though they were equally valuable.

The conflation of credit with money is therefore not merely conceptual; it is a mechanism of exploitation rooted in traditional values—much like the illusory nature of reality in the movie The Matrix. Tokens tied to “God” or the “full faith and credit of the government” divert resources away from those who create real value. Recognising this distinction is essential for a better and more prosperous world.

Children and divorce: The litmus test

What should divorced or separated couples do with their children? This is a notoriously difficult problem. When a couple separates, one or both individuals may want to break free from the relationship, but they cannot entirely do so because they have a child in common—or can they?

Consider the following example from a real case story. A couple had two children. The man decided to leave the relationship because he had fallen in love with someone else. When he told his partner that he was leaving, he stated that she need not worry, as he would continue fulfilling his duties as a father. The woman retorted by saying, “In that case, you can keep the children.” The man objected: “You can’t do that. You’re their mother!” Following this, the couple agreed to shared custody of the children.

Here, what prevents the desired separation is the man’s claim that being a mother comes with an unavoidable obligation towards her children. But this is contradictory. On the one hand, he is breaking the family by leaving. On the other hand, he is forcing it back together, “for the sake of the children”, making everyone suffer.

The woman’s reaction in this example may seem harsh, but it serves as a litmus test: if the man truly loves his children and accepts responsibility, then he should be prepared to take on full care of them without resorting to guilt and control. And if he acknowledges the importance of the mother, then he should not keep the children away from her. This seems like a better solution for everyone involved.

Why, then, did this man react the way he did? Sadly, children often result from unconscious needs and repetitions of unresolved childhood trauma. This man’s desire for children may reflect his own family history and his ambivalent feelings toward his own mother—who had expressed her desire for grandchildren when the couple met. By leaving his partner, he enacted two contradictory impulses: (1) identifying with children who need “Mummy,” and (2) betraying “Mummy” by loving someone else.

These unconscious processes are revealed in subtle ways, particularly in speech. The man may use the term “Mummy” or “Mother” when speaking around the child, conflating his own mother with the child’s mother. They also reveal that what is at stake in separation or divorce is not so much the well-being and love of children, but the “love” of the family—a love bound by obligation, tradition, and intergenerational expectations.

In cases like this, the dynamics of separation often expose the invisible chains of society. The mother’s initial response, offering to relinquish custody, serves as a radical rejection of these chains in favour of genuine love and respect. By saying, “You can keep the children,” the mother demonstrates a love for her children that is free of possessiveness and control. She refuses to perpetuate a structure in which children become a tool.

The father’s reaction—insisting that she cannot step away from this system—demonstrates how these moral expectations are upheld. His panic reveals that the children’s well-being is secondary to preserving the structure of the family as he understands it. The notion that a mother could step back and let the father take full responsibility is, in this framework, unthinkable—not because it harms the children, but because it disrupts the traditional roles and exposes the trauma that he has inherited.

The Gun – or Politics

In a small, peaceful plot of land, Prudence is busy at work, sowing seeds for the next crop, when she sees two strangers approach. As they come closer, Prudence notices that one of them is carrying a gun.

Stranger: Good day. My name is Justine, and this is Peter. We’ve come here to ask for your help.

Prudence: I see, and how can I help?

Justine: Peter needs food, and I’ve been told you have a surplus. I’m here to ask if you could share some of your food with him.

Prudence: I see… What if I refuse?

Justine: Well, in that case, I will have to use force; it’s not fair that you have a surplus and this person dies of hunger.

Prudence: And is it fair that you use force? How about asking for help without guns?

In this ordinary situation, we might sympathise with Prudence. Justine claims to be acting morally, but she is prepared to commit a crime, that of killing or wounding Prudence with a gun if she does not comply.

However, imagine that Justine wears a special suit and a badge, says that she is ‘the police’, and that it is written in ‘the law’ that Prudence has an obligation to give food to Peter, who has a ‘right’ to eat. In this case, we might begin to think differently, even though nothing has changed in reality, only words, clothes and their symbolic meaning.

Indeed, this interaction encapsulates the traditional roles of government (Justine), producers (Prudence), and citizens (Peter). Justine’s possession of a gun represents the ‘social contract’, where citizens grant authority to the government to enforce laws and regulations that meet collective needs. These needs are represented by Peter’s hunger, while Prudence represents the producers, who have resources and skills to fulfil them.

This scenario outlines a fundamental dilemma: are governments justified? Is Justine justified in using a gun against Prudence to help someone in need?

I believe they are not, and the reason is found in Prudence’s feelings, which is what I call ethics.

Justine’s ability to hold a gun against Prudence is a fundamental injustice, greater than the injustice of not feeding someone who’s dying of hunger. Peter’s support of this measure questions a citizen’s honesty and character: when we need help, we do not trust someone who chooses farming as a job, but we trust someone who chooses intimidation? Let’s imagine the roles changed and Justine was the farmer: would Justine be willing to share her surplus with Peter, or would we have to intimidate her? Would Peter share his surplus?

Any logical and coherent answer would have to admit that Prudence is willing to help a hungry Peter, if only they asked her honestly and peacefully. Likewise, Peter should not find himself in that situation, except by accident or bad luck; Peter would prefer to exchange his production or labour for Prudence’s food, rather than begging for it. For her part, Justine could help them produce even more food to prevent tragic situations, instead of going around with a gun intimidating people.

Unfortunately, though, we are born and grow up in a world where the gun is hidden beneath a guise of virtue and necessity. Adult human beings do not believe in our own goodness. Like a Prudence who resigns herself to paying taxes, we believe ourselves to be sinners who need intimidation and punishment to be morally good. However, deep down we know that those who punish us and lie about our nature have been, and continue to be, the cause of our problems.