Latest news with #Luddite
Otago Daily Times
13-07-2025
- Health
- Otago Daily Times
After a drawn-out battle, triumph beckons
The United Kingdom finds itself, once again, in the uncomfortably sweaty embrace of a heatwave. Edinburgh, a city built for haar, drizzle and existential melancholy, now shimmers with the heat. The grey stones of Leith have acquired a new hue in the golden sunshine. Pale Edinburgers have shed their woolly layers and have emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. I have no doubt the Meadows is currently a patchwork of charred sausages and sunburned students lazing out on the grass. Alas, I do not have the time to ascertain this myself. Instead of frolicking by the seaside or lying stretched out under a tree in Pilrig Park, I am trapped inside the cool quiet of my room, hunched over my desk, typing away furiously on my battered laptop. I am not deranged; I am a university student once again, making a final attempt to finish off a master's thesis I abandoned four years ago. Four years ago I was desperately depressed, anxiety-ridden, and seriously ill with ME/CFS and Long Covid. I was in the final stretch of my second master's degree — this one in global and imperial history — at the University of Oxford. The expectation was clear: to produce a well-researched and original thesis of 15,000 words. I was decidedly not capable of this. I was barely capable of showering or feeding myself. I was, of course, not merely a victim of my circumstances. I certainly could have been a better student; I could have applied myself more, drunk less, spent more time in the library instead of bars. But my father had just suffered his first heart attack — the second would end his life, two years later — and I was far from home, unable to return to New Zealand because of brutal Covid-19 border restrictions. Add to this my family's Luddite tendencies (I went several days without receiving news of my dad's health status), and you can perhaps understand why I wasn't best placed to meet the demands of an Oxford thesis. I can understand why some readers might view my struggles at Oxford as indulgent, ungrateful or pedantic. After all, I was awarded the immense privilege of a Rhodes Scholarship, an opportunity sought after by many but afforded to few. I am deeply aware of how fortunate I am. I could never have afforded to study overseas, let alone at a university as prestigious as Oxford. But those who are quick to judge often overlook — or choose not to understand — that gratitude and suffering can coexist. I have struggled with chronic depression for the better part of my life. When I arrived in Oxford, I was also grappling with CPTSD following the death of my brother by suicide only a few years earlier. I was also physically unwell with ME/CFS, battling thick, weighty fatigue. I could barely stay awake in lectures, and my brain fog made it nigh-impossible to form coherent sentences, let alone write postgraduate essays. My gratitude for the opportunity was — and still is — genuine, but it doesn't negate the deep and debilitating reality I was living through. After withdrawing from my studies, I felt a complex mix of relief, confusion and freedom. Most of all, I felt like an abject failure. Up until that point, my sense of self-worth had been almost entirely dictated by my academic and professional successes. And yet here I was, giving up on my Oxford dreams. I was a flop, a Rhodes Scholar with nothing to show for it but a glut of doctor's notes, joint pain and an unfinished thesis. In the intervening years I returned to working on the "other side" of academia, in administration, event-planning and communications. I rediscovered how much I enjoyed science communications. Translating complex research into accessible language, telling the human stories behind the data, and building bridges between disciplines has felt like a fresh alternative to the solitary grind of academia. At times it's been somewhat awkward, having to explain my incomplete degree and the gaps in my CV. But I've also learned to be a bit kinder to myself. I have learned that rest is not laziness, that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, and that my resumé does not determine my self-worth. I'm 30 now, and I've finally learned that I cannot bully my mind or body into health. But now, to quote the immortal words of The Human League, I'm coming back — back to my studies, back to Oxford, back to that dratted thesis that has haunted me for so many years. The University of Oxford, Rhodes House, and my wonderful college (Trinity) have graciously allowed me to return to my studies, and for this, I am deeply grateful. In a nutshell, my thesis is an intellectual history of Sir Frederic Truby King (1858-1938). King, a prominent New Zealand doctor, mental health reformer, and public health campaigner, is primarily remembered for his pioneering work in infant and maternal welfare with the Plunket Society. I am exploring King's life and legacy, focusing on his time as medical superintendent at Seacliff Asylum, where he developed ideas about moral treatment, environmental determinism and discipline in mental healthcare. In 2019, I wrote a column mildly questioning the sainthood of Captain Cook, arguing (hardly originally, I might add) that his voyages, whilst remarkable, also helped lay the foundations of a violent colonial order. A few days later, Emeritus Professor Erik Olssen published a rebuttal, dismissing my claims as "specious" and suggesting that I would surely fail my studies at Oxford. (Spoiler: I did drop out shortly after — but not, alas, for the reasons he thought.) The funniest thing about returning to my studies is that I am now poring over Olssen's (admittedly excellent) work on Truby King and the Plunket Society. The irony isn't lost on me. Academia has a long memory, but it also circles back in strange ways. The professor who once prophesied my failure now resides in my footnotes. The best thing about returning to my academic studies however has been the support of my supervisor. It is a somewhat revelatory experience to realise that a supervisor can actually be a wonderful mentor. My supervisor is not only brilliant but also kind, offering generous, thoughtful feedback and taking my disability support needs seriously. I'm now only two weeks away from my submission date, and the pressure is weighing on me once again. But I feel (relatively) calm and steady. I know that just pressing "submit" will be a personal triumph, even if I receive an abysmal grade. Just having got it done will be enough. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some footnotes to tidy up, and then I might go for a walk in the park. — Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.
Telegraph
08-07-2025
- Sport
- Telegraph
The technology ruining Wimbledon has nothing to do with line judges
Each year in mid-May, I get an extraordinary number of breezy phone calls from assorted Midlands 'ladies who lunch' and long-lost great nephews. Although most have maintained radio silence for the previous 12 months, and can barely remember our kids' names, they enquire earnestly after my health then manoeuvre the conversation round to the throwaway line: 'By the way, do you happen to have any Wimbledon tickets going spare?' Being lucky enough, as a member of the All England Club to be able to buy some tickets to the Championships each year without entering the ballot, I quite understand their belated enthusiasm to reconnect (even though our invitation to their exclusive garden party for 'le tout Warwickshire' unaccountably appears to have gone astray). In fact, most of my quota will have been spoken for several months earlier, sprinkled among various tennis-mad godchildren and the closest of old friends. 'Old' in this case reflects the fact that most are both long-standing mates and long in the tooth: with a husband in his 80s, few of our best buddies clock in at much below three-score years and 10. And the age factor became a particular conundrum when electronic ticketing was first introduced immediately post-Covid in 2021, with the limited numbers of fans allowed into the ground in that confusing era being assigned mobile e-tickets. At the time I, as a paid-up Luddite, was deeply suspicious of anything involving apps, QR codes, e-tickets or e-anything for that matter, and as the Champs approached I embraced full panic mode. Growing numbers of our elderly guests, most with venerable mobiles resembling large house bricks, began ringing me sheepishly to confess. 'Nigel's car phone doesn't seem to know anything about e-tickets. How on earth are we going to get in?' I gave it a go myself, but my retro Android was as reluctant as its owner to succumb to 'modern life'. Oh, for the services of some moderately capable digital native – or even an intelligent six-year-old. I had never felt so reactionary and pathetically out of touch, descending into paranoia over the possibility of deleting my treasured stash of Centre Court tickets with one ill-starred flick of the finger. Eventually, I gave up trying to master the state-of-the-art technology, which seemed too clever by half and certainly too clever for me, and dissolved into performatively noisy tears down the line to the ticket office. The merciful lady at the other end clucked sympathetically. I was evidently not the only one under the cosh with unaccustomed tech. 'Tell you what. I'll send you out the tickets in paper form.' Eureka! The paper tickets duly arrived and amid the occasional glitches of day one, when numerous unwary punters pitched up with phones out of battery, or the whole system briefly went haywire through the sheer weight of numbers trying to use it, our gang felt distinctly smug. No worries about servers crashing or phones giving up the ghost. We happily swapped in and out of the show courts, on our flexible paper tickets, grateful to be part of a tendency unspoilt by progress. Although now well capable of mastering the intricacies of the electronic system, I'm afraid we still favour the traditional method of access to tennis's holiest shrine. And despite the proven efficiency of e-ticketing and the club's preference for everyone to use it, there is an alternative, both for members and the public. Paper tickets are still available for us old dolts, or 'people who need additional support', as the club kindly refers to them, and those who don't own a mobile phone. If they contact the ticket office to explain their plight, they too can enjoy a day at Wimbledon. No wonder so many tennis aficionados claim that, if the All England's board were running the country, we'd all have a smile on our face.
Indian Express
05-07-2025
- Business
- Indian Express
Trump administration's pressure on GM produce underlines Indian farmers' predicament
The Donald Trump administration is exerting pressure on India to open up its market to American soyabean and maize, which are both almost entirely genetically modified (GM) produce. These are crops where the US has huge stakes, with its exports of raw soyabean alone valued at $24.5 billion and of maize at $13.7 billion in 2024. It would be more — around $52 billion — if exports of soyabean meal ($6.3 billion) and maize-derived ethanol ($4.3 billion) and dried distillers grains ($3.1 billion) are added. The economic imperative to find new markets is reinforced by Trump's political compulsion to cater to voters in the 'corn belt' states of the Midwestern US. Some of them, growing the bulk of the country's soyabean, maize and wheat — Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio — are also part of the 'rust belt' that constituted its industrial heartland. With Trump having swept both belts in the presidential elections, he has to evidently return that favour. For India, this presents a dilemma that has less to do with economics. Average soyabean yields in the US are more than 3.5 times that of India. That makes American growers much more cost competitive. Moreover, India imports close to 5 million tonnes (mt) of soyabean oil annually. From a domestic value addition standpoint, it makes sense to import soyabean itself, which can then be processed to yield both oil and the residual protein-rich cake or meal. The yield difference may be somewhat less for maize, where many Bihar farmers harvest almost the same per-hectare tonnage as their counterparts in Iowa or Illinois. But India's maize consumption is growing on the back of both feed and ethanol biofuel demand. Imports are going to be a practical necessity in both maize and soyabean meal, as rising incomes lead Indians to consume more dairy and other animal products that require these as key feed ingredients. The problem is more political. Maize and soyabean are grown on areas of 12 million hectares and 13 million hectares respectively in the country. Given the sheer number of farmers involved, the government cannot be oblivious to their interests. But that's where policy own-goals have not helped either. GM technology has allowed US farmers to plant soyabean and maize varieties that can tolerate application of herbicides and resist deadly insect attacks. They are, therefore, able to harvest higher yields through better weed and pest control. Unfortunately, the same technology has been denied to Indian farmers, who are now expected to compete against imports from countries whose governments have not succumbed to Luddite interests. Blocking technology in the name of Swadeshi has led to India turning from a net exporter to importer of cotton. The Trump pressure is like adding salt to the wound.
The Guardian
30-06-2025
- Business
- The Guardian
How can Australians make sure AI delivers on its hype? By proudly embracing our inner luddite
If I hear another well-intentioned person justifying their support for the regulation of AI with the qualifier 'I'm no luddite, but …' I'm going to start breaking my own machine. From ministers to union leaders to progressives watching from the cheap seats, there is growing recognition that untrammelled development of this technology carries significant risks. But there is also a reticence to be seen as being anti-technology lest we are perceived as standing in the way of the productivity boom and consequent bounty of abundance that the boosters of these tools promise is just around the corner. After all, we aren't luddites. The problem with being forced into this defensive mindset is that we misread the challenge at hand, which is not so much about the nature of the technology but the power dynamics driving this change. This is where the luddites and their misunderstood resistances to the last big technological revolution, chronicled in Brian Merchant's ripping yarn Blood in the Machine, may help us think through our current challenges. Here's the TLDR: in early 19th-century northern England, textile workers buck up against a new technology that automates their work and replaces well-paid skilled jobs with machines. When factory owners reject demands that the benefits of the new technology be shared, they gravitate around the avatar of young 'Ned Ludd' and begin breaking the new machines and burning down said factories. The resistance rages for five years until the British government deploys troops and criminalises their association, leading many of the rebels to be executed or transported down under. Having been crushed by state power, the luddites become a punchline for anyone who can't find the right wires for their laptop. Maybe it's the residual bloodlines of some of those transported luddites but, according to KPMG research of 47 nations, Australians are in the bottom cohort when it comes to trusting AI systems. This is a trend picked up by the Guardian Essential report. What's interesting is that as more people have begun using large language models including ChatGPT and Google Gemini, their concern about the risks of the technology have actually increased. The Digital Rights Watch founder, Lizzie O'Shea, refers to this dataset as a valuable national resource; it puts the onus on those proposing change to show that the risks have been mitigated. These risks take two distinct forms. The first is the existential risks of a sentient mind controlling the world, fighting wars and playing god. The makers of AI like to keep the focus here because it (a) proves how powerful their machines are; and (b) it pushes the discussion of harms over the time horizon. But the second set of risks is more immediate: that the tools (which are built on stolen information) are being shaped by the same big tech companies that have wreaked their destruction through social media with so little regard for the end user. Only this time it's not the consumers but workers they have in their sights. Over the past few weeks we have seen the bold prediction from Anthropic's chief executive, Dario Amodei, that half of all white-collar entry-level jobs are for the chopping block, while a study from MIT has found that the use of ChatGPT can harm critical thinking abilities. Yet our business leaders are sharpening their pencils, claiming that the technology offers such a productivity bonanza that the only thing we have to fear about AI is fear itself; while the ascendant tech industry is using every tool in their arsenal to avoid the 'constraint' of regulation. This is where the treasurer's newfound focus on productivity as a driver of national prosperity could have perverse consequences, particularly if it gets hijacked by tech and business interests that conflate head-cutting with working smarter. Again, the majority of Australians are sceptical about the productivity mantra. When they hear that word they see cost-cutting rather than shared benefit. These results show that if the government, business and the tech industry want us to embrace their future, they need treat us like the luddites we are. It starts by tapping the thinking of the Nobel prize in economics winners Daron Acemoglu and Simon Johnson, and recognising that productivity comes from giving workers new tools, connections and markets. While the stocking frame and spinning jenny of the Industrial Revolution were crudely extractive, other innovations including the steam engine opened up opportunity and possibility that drove prosperity and innovation for the next 200 years. They also should recognise that where the holders of new technology overreach, resistance will be ongoing. While the luddites may have been defeated, their movement gave way to the first worker guilds that successfully fought for the laws that civilised industrial capital. Finally, they must accept that when power is genuinely shared the benefits accrue in ways that sometimes are not even imagined at the point of connection. The last great productivity surge in Australia was the product of the accord struck between the Hawke-Keating governments and the Australian Council of Trade Unions, which helped to globalised the Australian economy while locking in social wage advances including Medicare and universal superannuation. Likewise in this wave of change, the feedback loops between the makers and users of technology will ultimately create the value, so it only stands to reason those loops will be strongest when trust is high and benefits are shared. Prof Nick Davis from the University of Technology Sydney's Human Technology Institute describes the AI challenge as being like physiotherapy after surgery: 'It only delivers if you put in the effort, follow the program and work with experts who know which muscles to strengthen and when.' Placing Australian workers at the centre of the AI revolution, with a right to guide the way it is used, the capacity to develop and enforce redlines and guardrails on an ongoing basis is not some gratuitous nod to union power, it is the hard-headed path to national prosperity. Proudly embracing our inner luddite and demanding a seat at the table is the surest way of ensuring that this wave of technology delivers on its hype. Peter Lewis is the executive director of Essential, a progressive strategic communications and research company that undertook research for Labor in the last election and conducts qualitative research for Guardian Australia. He is also the host of Per Capita's Burning Platforms podcast
Gizmodo
24-06-2025
- Gizmodo
‘Techno King' Elon Musk Doesn't Own a Computer, His Lawyers Tell Court
He fancies himself the innovator of our time. 'Disrupt' could be his middle name. Technology, it seems, is in his DNA. And yet, Elon Musk apparently—supposedly—has a secret Luddite streak: he doesn't use a computer. The revelation didn't come from a biography or a tell-all interview. It came from a legal filing in the high-stakes, mud-slinging lawsuit between Musk and OpenAI, where the future of artificial intelligence is on trial in a Northern California courtroom. Amid thorny questions of corporate betrayal and billion-dollar secrets, this strange detail stole the show. Yes, you heard that correctly. It's not a joke from a late-night show. That's not me saying it. It's coming from Musk's own lawyers. In a legal letter filed on June 22, Musk's legal team pushed back against accusations from OpenAI that they were failing to turn over relevant documents. When OpenAI claimed Musk's team was refusing to collect certain materials, his lawyers called the accusation 'incorrect' and, in the process, dropped the bombshell. 'Mr. Musk does not use a computer,' his lawyers at Toberoff & Associates wrote on the first page of the three-page document. There's just one problem with that claim: public evidence, including from Musk himself, suggests otherwise. While employees at X told WIRED Musk primarily works from his phone, they also note he has been seen using a laptop on occasion. More pointedly, Musk has referenced owning a computer in his own social media posts. In a December 2024 post on X, he shared an image with the text, 'This is a pic of my laptop,' explaining that he was using it to test Starlink's streaming capabilities in-flight. More recently, in May 2025, when asked about his gaming setup, Musk replied on X that he is 'still using my ancient PC laptop with the @DOGE sticker made long ago by a fan.' This is a pic of my laptop. It's about 3 years old. A guy in Germany gave me this cool sticker, so I don't want to upgrade it and lose the sticker. — Elon Musk (@elonmusk) December 31, 2024This contradiction emerges from the messy 'discovery' phase of his lawsuit against OpenAI, where he accuses CEO Sam Altman of betraying their founding mission. As both sides fight over internal documents, the battle has intensified. This context makes the 'no computer' claim seem less like a personal quirk and more like a potential legal tactic to limit the scope of discoverable documents. After all, if there are no computers, there are no computer files to hand over. The Musk v. Altman case is a proxy war over the governance and ownership of AI. Musk, a co-founder of OpenAI, now portrays himself as its most prominent critic, arguing the company sold its soul to Microsoft. OpenAI, in turn, depicts Musk as a bitter ex-partner trying to interfere with a company he chose to leave. But for now, the legal drama is being overshadowed by a bizarre claim that is seemingly contradicted by Musk's own public statements: the man suing over the future of artificial intelligence may be trying to persuade a judge that he has personally abandoned one of the most fundamental tools of the digital world.
