Join us for an interactive panel discussion on the ethics of military and dual-use technology
on Tuesday May 13th at the TU Delft Library! 

Centuries ago, Leonardo Da Vinci is said to have destroyed his schematics for a submarine, out of fear for how they may be used at war (Chalk 1989). His story is not unique. Scientists and engineers have long been troubled by the moral weight of their discoveries and creations. Is the world better for their work – that men may better kill one another? Albert Einstein both promoted and later protested the development of nuclear weapons. His letter, written with Leo Szilard in 1939 to then US president Franklin Delano Roosevelt helped spur the Manhattan Project into existence. Years later, in 1946 Einstein was warning the world against the danger of the very same weapons and their proliferation.

Today’s researchers struggle with many of the same questions. How might their work be used, for better or worse, in war? Google employees have protested their company’s involvement in the development of AI defense intelligence tools. Despite high profile protests like this, surveys in the United States found that a majority of AI professionals feel either positively  (38%) or neutral (40%) about participating in research funded by the Department of Defense. Only a minority (24%) viewed such work negatively (Aiken 2020). Motivated variously by a sense of patriotism, civic duty, and or fear of war, many turn their technical skills to develop weapons. Young technical professionals can be seen in increasingly large numbers at hackathons and in the attendance at job fairs where defense companies recruit. The Russian invasion of Ukraine has motivated many to pursue careers in defense who may otherwise never have considered it. Indeed, it is precisely such technological innovativeness which has helped Ukraine defend itself in the face of overwhelming odds. 

Here at TU Delft, similar questions prompt students and staff to question the future role of the university. For some, research in the military domain offers a promising way not only to secure funding, prestige, and intellectually fruitful partnerships, but also a way to respond to broader geopolitical fears. Concerns run high about the combined effect of Russian aggression and the manic American mix of saber-rattling and political side-switching. As the Netherlands considers for the first time in 27 years to reintroduce military conscription, the TU Delft wonders what its place in such a more militarized society could be. Indeed, the official statement from the TU Delft on why it collaborates with the defense industry cites Ukraine specifically, alongside the desire to rely less on other countries and “take more responsibility for defence, both within NATO and in the EU.” The duty and mission driven language of the statement ties its collaborations with the defense industry to TU Delft’s refrain ‘impact for a better society’.

Research of interest to defense is not restricted to those projects and partnerships which are explicitly dedicated to weapons systems (like the internships with Lockheed Martin to develop F-35s). Considering how many technologies are dual-use, innovation which may capture military attention happens in unexpected places. It was only as recently as mid-April that a team from TU Delft won a drone racing championship with autonomous drones against human competitors. It leaves little work to the imagination to see how such progress could also be put to use at war. 

As momentum builds for deepening partnerships between military, private, and academic institutions, some protest. At the Delft Career Days in February, eleven activists were arrested for protesting (in addition to fossil fuel companies) the presence of companies involved in the development and production of weapons, and particularly those which sell arms to Israel. Meanwhile, in the past few weeks, the ‘Delft Student Intifada’ (DSI), distributed an informational package to professors across campus with the aim of ending collaborations with Israeli institutions. The material, available online includes a ‘complicity map’ documenting projects they argue are morally complicit in genocide. 

At some level, a fair deal of what is argued for and against TU Delft’s partnerships with defense comes down to political affiliation. An emphasis on helping Ukraine is frequently used to justify support for defense partnerships. Solidarity with Palestine may predict greater skepticism. However, the deep commitments we have, even implicitly, to morality, science, and politics are more varied than such a simple and partisan characterization might indicate.

A more fundamental questions concerns what the university is and should be. The TU Delft official statement describes the university’s social mission, and the DSI website discusses the “soul” of the university. Over sixty years ago, Dwight D. Eisenhower described the transformation of scientific research in the United States brought about by federal funding and military investment:

“Today, the solitary inventor, tinkering in his shop, has been over shadowed by task forces of scientists in laboratories and testing fields. In the same fashion, the free university, historically the fountainhead of free ideas and scientific discovery, has experienced a revolution in the conduct of research. Partly because of the huge costs involved, a government contract becomes virtually a substitute for intellectual curiosity.”

In some sense, both TU Delft as well as activist anti-militarist movements are trying to articulate and balance the tensions between social obligations, scientific aspirations, and intellectual freedoms. The outcome of how they weigh these values against one another entails the very character of the university itself. 

Like much good philosophy, the questions that underlie those debates are so basic as to typically be asked either only at the end of a very long, tiresome, and abstract conversation – or by a child. What sort of university is it that makes weapons? What responsibilities do scientists and engineers have for their creations? When is war just, can it ever be? Are some technologies inherently bad? What sort of person would you be, if you designed things which kill? Like any self-interested philosopher, I could emphasize how important each of these questions can be, how we ought to have more ethics classes and so on. The philosophers want funding too.

With all this talk about war and the ethics of weapons research we might lose sight of a simpler and often ignored question: What is peace? Often, peace is taken to be war’s opposite, an absence of violence. In a metaphor, peace might be seen like cold, the absence of heat. There are some who might accept this notion, that we have peace so long as the guns go silent. In that case, there are plenty of ugly and atrocious sorts of peace: slavery, submission, or the tolerance and tenuous truce of the time before the guns start up again, an interbellum.

For others, peace is positive, substantive, it has something to it more than the mere absence of war (Fiala 2023). So for those who may read this article and in response quote some old Latin, saying Si vis pacem, para bellum ‘If you want peace, prepare for war’ we are still stuck asking what it is we really want. If peace is positive, then we must also ask how to prepare ourselves. Are we prepared for peace, do we have the necessary tools, do we have the institutions, do we have the character? What more do we need? Beyond just truce and tolerance, if we were to have lasting peace, could we bear it? 

The political sentiments which seem to motivate views on military research may well conceal deeper differences in what we conceive of as peace. If peace is simply war’s absence, then it is perhaps easier to justify the energy, creativity, and spending that goes towards preparation for war. If, however, peace is something more and we desperately lack it, even domestically, then demands to prepare for war so as to achieve peace are likely to require much more justification. So when we ask ourselves about the ethics of military research and defense partnerships, first find your vision of peace, and ask what we are and should be preparing for.

Recommended Reading:

Virgina Woolf, Three Guineas, 1938

Academic References:

Aiken, C., Kagan, R., & Page, M. (2020). ‘Cool Projects’ or ‘Expanding the Efficiency of the Murderous American War Machine?’. Center for Security and Emerging Technology. https://cset.georgetown.edu/publication/cool-projects-or-expanding-the-efficiency-of-the-murderous-american-war-machine/

Chalk, R. (1989). Drawing the Line: An Examination of Conscientious Objection in Science. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 577(1), 61–74. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1749-6632.1989.tb15050.x

Fiala, A. (2023). Pacifism. In E. N. Zalta & U. Nodelman (Eds.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2023 Edition). Stanford University. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2023/entries/pacifism/

Some things you shouldn’t have to see. But once you have, you can never unsee them.

In the early months of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, I saw footage filmed by drones. It’s been over three years now—those drones feel like they belonged to a thousand generations ago. Still, I saw bodies shatter into pieces under precisely dropped mini-bombs. I saw soldiers begging the camera for mercy. I saw others shot point-blank after surrendering.

But what did I actually see?

In 1991, the French philosopher Jean Baudrillard wrote that the Gulf War never took place. He didn’t mean that there was no fighting or death, but that for us, as spectators, the war had dissolved into simulation. What I saw back then—still on TV—was a media event: clinical images of cruise missiles, greenish-grey dashboards, and vague night vision footage. Sometimes we caught glimpses of tiny dots fleeing for their lives far below. But they looked more like pixels, extras at best.

The Gulf War was a spectacle: sanitized and kept at a distance. It was nothing like the Vietnam War, where journalists were close to the action and the public felt the horror almost first-hand. That coverage had a profound impact on public opinion. Three decades after the Gulf War, war has taken on yet another form—not one of further abstraction, but quite the opposite. War is close again.

Thanks to cheap drones, bodycams, live feeds, and algorithmic targeting, we now get war in first-person view—as if we’re looking through the crosshairs ourselves. We no longer see the soldier as a silhouette on the horizon, but as a panting body huddled in the mud. The drone follows silently, often piloted from miles away—or even autonomously. The strike comes from above, soundless. And we watch.

On X, on Telegram, in short clips going viral on TikTok. War is back in our hands—but what exactly are we watching?

With the rise of drones, everything has changed. Not just because drones are now cheap and widely accessible, but because they are deployed in asymmetric conflicts where there is no clear front line. In Ukraine, the DJI Mavic—originally a commercial camera drone—has become a lethal weapon. You can order it online for a few hundred euros.

Houthi fighters use drones to attack Saudi oil installations. Israeli drones hover endlessly above Gaza, sometimes simply to instill fear through their constant presence. The drone is camera, weapon, and psychological torture device in one.

The “first-person war” is not just a technological innovation—it’s a media, cultural, and even existential shift. What we now see is no longer abstract strategy but the soldier’s gaze, the civilian’s panic, the drone pilot’s loneliness—or worse, his absence.

This shift has ethical consequences. If war increasingly becomes a livestream, what does that mean for our engagement? Does it make us more aware of the horror—or do we indulge in a perverse kind of empathy at a distance? Do we see victims as people, or as ‘content’?

The Ukrainian army regularly posts drone footage of successful strikes on Russian positions, often with metal music or ironic captions. Russian Telegram channels do the same. Death becomes part of the narrative—and is aestheticized. The American philosopher Donna Haraway once wrote: “Technologies are not neutral. We’re inside of what we make, and it’s inside of us.” In the case of drones: we make the machines—but they also reshape how we see war, feel it, judge it.

Baudrillard might say: now the war is really happening—but in a way that undermines his own argument. Virtuality hasn’t disappeared; it has entangled itself with bodies on the battlefield. The man who dies is no longer invisible; we see his face, hear his final words. And that changes something in us.

At the same time, the visibility drones provide is no open window onto reality. Footage from Israeli drones rarely reaches us. There’s no viral TikTok of a Palestinian family being killed from the air. The media form of drone warfare is one of selective openness: it shows exactly what those in power want us to see—and hides the rest.

So what are we watching? The media aspect of the drone may be its most powerful weapon. It not only determines who dies—but also who counts. And who is allowed to watch.

With the “first-person war” the body has returned to the screen—not as citizen or hero, but as datapoint or cautionary tale. War is happening. In brutal rawness.

But in a way that enables new forms of alienation and control.

What does this mean for a University of Technology? It’s a question that students and researchers in Delft must confront. Here, the next generation of drones is being developed—often not for military use, but sooner or later the technology ends up on the battlefield. It’s a difficult question in chaotic times, when war feels simultaneously closer and further away than ever. That’s why it’s a crucial question in our program line War and Entropy—how do we navigate in times of conflict and increasing chaos?

On Tuesday, May 6, researchers Nick Johnston and Yke Bauke Eisma will explore this very question.

Join us, and take part in the conversation.

My dear friend Ivana Ivković – one of the speakers in the Studium Generale programme War and Rhetoric on April 29 – once told me a harrowing anecdote. The Bosnian capital Sarajevo was under siege by the forces of Radovan Karadžić, who had unilaterally declared the Republika Srpska within Bosnia. It was one of the darkest episodes in the wars that tore Yugoslavia apart – a moral catastrophe in postwar Europe, including the helplessness (or unwillingness) of Europe itself to act. The city was being brutally shelled from all sides; snipers targeted anything that moved.

At the edge of the city stood an abandoned post office, which had become a target for bullets and grenades. On one of its walls, a Serbian nationalist had spray-painted the slogan: “This is Serbia!” Beneath it, a Sarajevan had scrawled in reply: “No, idiot! This is a post office!”

The contrast could not be sharper: a nationalistic cry attempting to redraw borders through violence and ideology, countered by a sober, almost comical correction that lays bare the absurdity of such violent symbolism. In that simple response – “No, idiot! This is a post office!” – you hear a flicker of resistance, or at the very least, a preservation of common sense, of language refusing to play along with the logic of war.

Because hatred, violence, and war begin with language. Slowly, the markers shift. Friends become opponents, then enemies. Migrants are likened to natural disasters (“tsunami,” “flood”), the EU was supposedly created to “screw over” the US, the slur khokhol for Ukrainians resurged in Russia before the invasion, and in Gaza we witness how rhetoric and devastating violence walk hand in hand.

Studium Generale is organising a series of events on the theme War and Entropy. We have deliberately chosen the word entropy, because we don’t just want to focus on war itself, but also on everything that precedes it. In physics, entropy describes the degree of disorder in a system: the higher the entropy, the more chaotic and unpredictable the system becomes. In times of war, we witness a kind of societal entropy – meanings shift, structures collapse, noise increases, certainties dissolve.

What in thermodynamics is an irreversible process (“the arrow of time”), gains its own social-political dynamic: conflict accelerates the decay of order, but also of language, values, and trust. Conflicts bring about a mental and moral disintegration. We are witnessing this globally in the erosion of international structures (the United Nations, the international rule of law), which were precisely established to prevent political chaos.

And yet… even in these dark times, is there still a way to find a new kind of order within the disorder – let’s call it common sense – that we can hold on to? How do we resist the growing noise, violence, conflict, and war?

According to the Second Law of Thermodynamics, entropy is irreversible. And yet, there are indeed forms of resistance. Life itself – albeit temporarily, as we well know – is already a form of resistance; an organisation of matter that delays inevitable decline. In this programme series, we explore the nature of war, but also such forms of resistance.

In the series War & Rhetoric we examine how language gradually becomes toxic in the run-up to conflict, but also how it can connect and heal. In First-Person War, we look at how technology has changed the battlefield. Drone operators – and we, watching at home via social media – now witness war up close. What does this mean for our experience of war, and is there a way to turn that experience toward something meaningful? During Ethics and Military AI, we ask whether, and how, scientists can take a personal moral stance in relation to war-related research. In the final event, Rob de Wijk, a leading expert on international relations and security, will reflect on the current geopolitical situation, with special attention to the role of a University of Technology.

A special highlight is the so-called Antidebate, led by TU Delft philosopher Madelaine Ley. Precisely in today’s entropic public sphere – where debate has shifted from collective truth-seeking to a spectacle of polarisation, ‘gotcha’ moments, and tribal posturing – the antidebate offers a new form of public exchange. It’s based on deep listening, feeling, and thinking as central values. We are looking for people who want to participate in this experiment! For more information, email L.M.Heuts@TUDelft.nl

While the declamatory voice of Vincent Cellucci — poet, writer, and curator of the TU Library — echoes through the theatre café of Theater De Veste, I see visitors lifting their legs, dancing, or waddling like penguins. They are dancing on a poem, generated by themselves in interaction with AI. Next to him stands the gigantic tripod: a towering structure composed of 800 rings, where, alongside artworks, large language models are being trained to use more inclusive language — informed by feminist and ecological theories and indigenous philosophy.

This is a scene from the For Love of the World festival — the annual event organized by Studium Generale and Theater De Veste. On the 29^th of March, hundreds of visitors filled every corner of the theatre.

For Love of the World is a festival that refuses to accept the status quo — a world dominated by power, control, exclusion, capital, and war. Can we use technology, art, and philosophy to offer a hopeful, inclusive, and just perspective in which all earth-dwellers — human and non-human — can feel at home?

There were remarkable speakers, such as Shivant Jhagroe, who, in light of the climate crisis, advocates for more radical changes than electric cars or solar panels — which, according to him, serve more as status symbols than as real contributions to a fair and sustainable planet. Or John Bosco Conama, Director of the Centre for Deaf Studies and keynote speaker, who spoke about patterns of linguistic hegemony and linguistic imperialism that marginalize Irish Sign Language.

But perhaps most remarkable were the dozens of students who voluntarily showed up a day early to saw, hammer, and build a range of installations. Students from various student associations (Argus, Vox, Hesiodos, Debating, Kaleidos) — or those who simply wandered in to lend a hand. On the day it self they participated in poetry, writing and so much more.

No one can convince me that Gen Z is cynical or inward-looking. The world concerns us all, and even small actions can eventually have a great impact. Even in dark times. Do not go gentle into that good night.

Photos © De Schaapjesfabriek

Have you ever had a friend suddenly get mad at you? It used to happen to me every once in a while. I’d be fully comfortable, just yapping away, and they would suddenly blow up at me. Out of the blue. For no reason.

For no reason I could see, anyway.

I’ll give you an example. I was at a student bar, drinking and talking shit with a housemate and close friend of mine. We were talking about our parents and our financial dependance on them. As I saw it, we were joking about how, while we both worked hard at our studies, we still relied on our parents for financial support. I genuinely felt that our situations – undergraduate students with relatively well-off parents, both doing literature-related degrees – were very similar.

You can imagine my surprise when she suddenly got angry and defensive. I was baffled when I realised that she had taken the last fifteen minutes of playful conversation literally, and that she thought I had been insulting her work ethic and family. Instead of light-hearted banter between friends, where I was reflecting on my own situation as much as on hers, she had experienced a thorough roast of her morals and lifestyle.

I was shocked that my longtime friend, someone I lived in the same house with, someone I admired, thought I could be so judgmental about her – especially since my own situation was so similar. Of course, we’d both been drinking, which can’t have helped. But I was still very upset.

I did learn something from it, though. We all live in our own realities. A conversation can feel like a bonding moment to one participant, and like an insult to the other. It’s so important to check in with others, to really listen. There’s lots of ways to make sure that your intentions – especially loving intentions! – really land with the other person. And conversely, it can be just as important to clearly communicate a negative message. For instance, if you want to safely and respectfully break contact with someone. All of these interactions can prove very challenging for someone who, like me, gets too much in their own head.

In short, good communication skills are essential to success in many areas of your life. This is why I am so pleased that SG is working with Hii to offer a Good Conversations workshop. Our previous collaborative workshop was a huge success. It was eye-opening and very enjoyable at the same time. So I look forward to welcoming you this Thursday at 6pm at the TU Delft Library. The session is free and concludes with an opportunity to chat over drinks and pizza, so it really is the ideal opportunity to work on yourself, meet new people, and have some fun.

Sign up here!

Veni, vidi, vici, Julius Caesar exclaimed after a victorious battle—three words that have since encapsulated the essence of decisiveness. Since then, the triad has become a powerful principle: from the Holy Trinity and the Three Wise Men to The Lord of the Rings trilogy and the structure of a well-told story with a beginning, middle, and end. We experience the world in three dimensions, so it is no coincidence that a festival like For Love of the World embraces this number.

On March 29, an object will rise on the festival grounds that brings this triad to life: a horizontal Tripod. The structure is composed of approximately 800 cardboard rings, designed and built by students Tess Wilschut and Zuzanna Jastrzebska in collaboration with the architecture student association Argus. This construction extends in a Y-shape over nearly three meters and creates three zones. Each zone is dedicated to a fundamental dimension of human existence: our relationship with nature, society, and the divine.

This triad—nature, society, and the divine—is not just an abstract concept but reflects how we relate to each other and the world. Think of our centuries-old relationship with forests and oceans. They have been both a source of life and a threat. Forests provided food and shelter but also harboured wild animals and dangers. The seas provided fish and trade routes but also claimed countless lives through storms and shipwrecks. Societies began to organize and regulate nature. Forests were managed with rules on logging and hunting, while seas and rivers were divided into fishing grounds and trade routes. Both forests and oceans were not just physical spaces but also cultural and legal entities. Consider the sacred forests in various traditions or maritime law, which determined who was allowed to fish and sail where. At the same time, both forests and oceans have been places of contemplation and magic, as seen in ancient fairy tales and religious traditions. The sea symbolized the unknown, the boundary between worlds, a place of infinity and myth—from Norse legends of sea serpents to the spiritual significance of water in nearly all major religions.

But in modern times, this balance seems disrupted. Forests are reduced to suppliers of raw materials or carbon storage, while oceans are primarily seen as trade routes, tourist attractions, or industrial fishing zones.

Traditionally, language has always been the key to how we understand the three dimensions—and thereby ourselves. We tell stories about nature, shape societies through laws, schools, science, and myths, and seek meaning through sacred texts. But the stories we tell have shifted solely to data and policy, while the dimension of society is increasingly derailed by polarization and the language of hate and war.

The dimensions seem to have turned against us. We face ecological crises. Living together—especially internationally—has become a precarious and dangerous matter. The divine, once a source of wonder and connection, is now used for exclusion and conflict, while leaders and states are worshipped with religious fanaticism, blind to facts and truth.

But if language has always been the key, could a new language reopen the way forward? The Tripod is an experiment in which we use large language models (LLMs) to explore this question. Critics fear that AI merely reproduces existing power structures and biases—sexism, racism, or the interests of the tech elite. But what if we can use LLMs to access these fundamental dimensions in a playful, anarchic way? So that they once again become part of a meaningful life, rather than being seen as something that threatens us?

See the Tripod as an improvised switchboard between you and nature, society, and the spiritual. In the ‘nature’ zone of the Y-shaped construction, you will find the stunning video installation NATURA by artist Floris Schönfeld. NATURA is an all-encompassing artificial super-intelligence that has managed to become one with the natural world in its entirety. TU Delft Researcher in human-robot relations Yke Bauke Eijsma will discuss AI as a new form of intelligence.

In the ‘society’ zone, you will encounter, among other things, the kilo-girls, which is a unit equal to the computational ability of 1000 women. Kilo-girls, created by artist Julia Luteijn, is a collection of computer-generated poems that reflect programmed biases. Prejudice, stereotyping, and discrimination are not confined to the human experience but are also inherited by the technologies we create. At the same time, in this zone, we see how technology can be used to be more inclusive and diverse, in collaboration with the Feminist Generative AI Lab from TU Delft and Erasmus University. In the spiritual section, we are working with researcher and futurist Gustavo Nogueira de Menezes on the Spiritual.AI chatbot.

These are small experiments, but with a serious background: can we use AI to breathe new life into the three dimensions, almost as a hack or a virus? What if AI is not just generative but also regenerative: inclusive, diverse, with room for the most unexpected stories? The Tripod is not a static entity, and we will certainly use it more often. But for now: come (veni) and see (vidi) if Zuzanna and Tess have managed to put the thing up (vici).

Leon Heuts, head of Studium Generale

“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without but know we cannot live within,” writes essayist and civil rights activist James Baldwin in The Fire Next Time. This statement comes from a time of great social upheaval in the United States, the early 1960s. It was a period marked by political assassinations, the fight for civil rights, and the rise of violence and polarization. Baldwin asks the question: why would love be an answer in times when hatred and self-glorification dominate? It is a question that, although circumstances change, remains ever-relevant.

Baldwin’s concept of love is not merely the personal emotion but a broader ‘state of being’, a force that invites us to look beyond our outward protective mechanisms—the masks we wear to be accepted or avoid pain. Yet, it is these very masks that keep us trapped, preventing us from growing. The love Baldwin speaks of is not simple, sentimental love but one that challenges us, even in difficult times, to rise up and free ourselves from what holds us back.

This love is political and – in a good sense – radical. It is not the love for friends or family, but a broader love that challenges the foundations of society. The idea of universal brotherhood, where everyone is welcomed regardless of background or status, has driven people throughout history to resist injustice and tyranny. We see this echoed in early Christianity, where Paul writes in his letters about agape; universal love, regardless of origin or achievement. Love, in this sense, is a force capable of transforming society.

But how do we apply this love in practice? It is difficult to tie a clear political program to this love, because every systematic approach tends to exclude groups. And even in the name of universal love or truths massacres have been carried out. Love, as Baldwin sees it, is an open attitude—a willingness to listen and change. When programs become rigid and exclude the possibility of change, tyranny arises. Love, on the other hand, offers the space to keep searching for better, more just ways of living together. It is the ability to be touched by what is not heard, by what is not allowed a place. It is the point where the universal converges with the singular—that one voice, the oppressed, the fugitive, the destitute, the oppressed, the refugee.

Inspired by this idea, we at Studium Generale are working on the festival For Love of the World. It is an ambitious task, as we are a small team. But we believe that love, and especially love for the world, is crucial in this time for a university of technology. In an era where technology is often used for destructive purposes, such as war technology or manipulative algorithms, it simultaneously offers unprecedented opportunities to bring about positive change. What drives us is the conviction that we must not only acquire knowledge but also take responsibility for using that knowledge for the greater good. This means being willing to revisit our beliefs and remain open to new perspectives and voices. That is love.

A concrete example of this approach at our festival is the use of large language models such as ChatGPT. This technology can reinforce existing biases, but it also provides the opportunity to add marginalized voices, such as feminist theories and indigenous knowledge, to everyday language. By enriching this technology in an inclusive way, we try to show a broader and more diverse representation of ideas. We call it an ‘act of love’; perhaps not the traditional sense of the word, but rather an attempt to use the technology in a way that challenges conventions and creates space for change.

Why would we do this? Because science, like love, does not only inspire us to acquire knowledge but also to reflect and transform. Science gives us the tools to understand the world, but love gives us the motivation to use that knowledge for a more just society. It undeniably adds a more holistic dimension to science: improving and analysing the world with respect for that same world in all its extraordinary diversity. The festival, therefore, also offers space for spirituality, in a grounded way—not vague mysticism which can easily be misused (and currently is misused) by extremists, but the experience of interconnectedness, even – and especially – with what you do not know or understand. We believe that social engagement begins there.

Baldwin reminded us that love is not a passive state but an active force that challenges us to remove our masks and free ourselves from the limitations we have imposed on ourselves. Personally, I am especially happy that more and more students are becoming involved in the festival, because the future belongs to them. The future is not a given, but fundamentally open. Because it has yet to come, it means that it can change. The potentiality to transform is love.

Last Thursday, SG took the Writing Huddle to the beautiful exposition Arcadian Dreams at the Echo Building. Huddled between the lifelike post-apocalyptic sculptures, we practised our writing skills and our imaginations. Below you can read a story written by one of the people who joined us there, written from the perspective of one of the creatures. Thanks, Ananth Ravi, for the wonderful story and the picture of your critter companion.

It is like last time when I opened my eyes. It is getting warmer. My back is a bit itchy. I should go to the river and bathe. Ah, fruits. It would be nice to store them when I come back. The trees have leaves again. I must close the cave with branches.

This was the path where I used to go with Layla. The smell of her, the spring in her step. There were birds—birds that don’t come here anymore.

Mushrooms are nice. I need to be careful with them. Last time, they made me sick.

The water is cold. Where are the fish?

No one has come to see me in a while. They used to come me. They knew I had seen things. But they stopped coming.

I don’t remember things anymore. I remember Layla’s eyes.

My fingers have some worms. I can eat them.

I should get some branches on my way back.

It is warm outside. I can lie down and scratch my back.

I forget how tall and shiny and big, the cave is. I wonder if I can climb to the shine. The branches go all the way up. There are so many of them.

One of these caves used to have a small river inside the cave. I don’t remember which one.

Oh, that is a bird. It went inside the shine—the high-up place with pieces missing, where the wind sometimes howls through.

It is getting dark. I must go in now.

“When the woman/ man saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she/ he took some and ate it. She/ He also gave some to her husband/ his wife, who was with her/ him, and he/ she ate it.” Continue reading →

If I buy a plastic bottle of water today, book a flight, trade crypto, purchase clothes, chair a meeting, sign up for a dating app, mindlessly share a post on social media, cut in line at the supermarket, or ignore a colleague because I’m too busy—do I really know what the consequences of my actions will be tomorrow? For others, for the planet, or for future generations? Wouldn’t I go mad if I constantly thought about it?

Around me, I see people tuning out. They know their actions have consequences, but should that really mean flying less, being kinder to others, or double-checking whether they’re spreading disinformation? We already have so many obligations. Better to focus on living a pleasant life for yourself and those close to you. Some might say we’re too interconnected—the networks we’re part of, through our apps, our travel, and our global systems, are simply too vast to grasp the impact of individual actions.

And besides, what can I really contribute in a world increasingly shaped by power struggles, imperialism, narcissism, war, stupidity, exclusion, and the climate crisis? What’s the point of reflecting on what I—small, insignificant me—can do? It’s easier to retreat inward, live my own life, and accept that I can’t change much.

Recently, DeepSeek—the Chinese AI model rapidly outpacing ChatGPT—was asked about the most important questions humanity should reflect on. Its answer? What are the consequences of my actions for others? How can I live in harmony with nature and future generations? Am I open to new perspectives, and do I learn from others?

Easier said than done.

But perhaps that’s the point. Let it be complex! If we imagine ourselves as a node in a vast, fluctuating and unpredictable network of relationships—including with nature and future generations—then maybe our actions matter more than we think. Chaos theory teaches us that, in complex and unpredictable systems, small fluctuations can eventually lead to significant outcomes. This imparts an ethical weight to even the smallest of actions—and with that, a perspective: we don’t need to change the whole world at once. Small, thoughtful actions aimed at building a better future can already make a difference. For example, if you buy food with care, you might start to consider its origin. What does that mean for what you choose to buy—and how might you tell others what you’re doing differently?

Isn’t this also what artists do? Or scientists? One piece of art, one book, one new theory can change the way we look at the world. To accept nothing really matters any more in this complex world, is to say beauty or knowledge no longer holds meaning.

The For Love of the World festival is all about connections. How can we connect with one another, the planet, and the future? Against the backdrop of this era’s pervasive defeatism—understandable, given the darkness—we place art, philosophy, science, and love. Not some overly romantic ideal of love, but the simple conviction that we care about one another and this world. We aim for better connections, grounded in the belief that even small changes can lead to meaningful transformations.

This year, we focus on language, because language defines how we connect—with the planet and with everyone else sharing this journey through the universe. Words carry immense power: they spark innovation, inspire art, and express truths. But language is also weaponized. It divides and controls through linguistic imperialism, polarization, manipulative rhetoric, and the subtle (or not-so-subtle) influence of technology.

What if we could rewrite the story? What if we could use language to cross the boundaries of culture, species, and technology, to reveal how words can either uphold or dismantle power? Together, we can craft new narratives for a world we love wholeheartedly.

At this year’s festival, we’ll explore how nature is represented in language, how large language models are increasingly shaping our view of reality, and how tools like ChatGPT can be used to amplify marginalized voices. We also explore the mystical: can language connect us to our place in the cosmos? For example, the language of music or that of poets. Could that also inspire social change?

Claiming the story. Be part of the story, especially if you care about the decades you still have left on this planet and the (near) future you want to help shape. Will you help write this new story? Even a few words, whose impact might be greater than you’d expect? Join us, and don’t miss the Early Bird special.

Get your early bird tickets (offer ends February 4th)