Left Hand, Right Hand, Middle, and No Path: Which Road to the Divine Is Yours?

Every religion promises a road to the divine. Very few admit who drew the map.

For most of recorded history, the people writing scripture, running temples, and defining holiness were men. They mapped the spiritual journey from their own starting point, with their own temptations in mind, and then handed that map to everyone. I believe that's why so many women walk the "correct" path faithfully and arrive at the end smaller than when they began.

Here is what I've come to believe: there is no single road to the divine. Women need the left-hand path. Men need the right-hand path. Nonbinary people need the middle path, or no path at all. Each road is medicine, and medicine only heals when it treats the illness you actually have.

What the left-hand and right-hand paths actually are

The terms come from Indian tantra. In Sanskrit, dakṣiṇācāra is the right-hand way and vāmācāra is the left-hand way. The right-hand stream kept to orthodox rules and social convention. The left-hand stream deliberately broke taboos, using things polite society forbade, including wine, meat, and ritual sexuality, as doorways to liberation. Left-hand tantra is also centered on Shakti, the divine feminine as raw creative power, and it treats women as essential to the ritual. Sanskrit even carries a quiet pun: vāma means "left," and the closely related vāmā means "woman."

The terms came West through Helena Blavatsky, founder of the Theosophical Society. In Isis Unveiled (1877), she introduced "left-hand path" and "right-hand path" to European occultism, declared herself a follower of the right, and painted the left as black magic and a danger to society. Historian Dave Evans points out that this neat binary didn't exist in Western esotericism before her. It also landed in cultures that already associated "left" with sin and bad luck. Even the Gospel of Matthew puts the sheep on the right hand and the goats on the left.

Over time the definitions settled into something like this:

The right-hand path looks outward and upward. It serves a God or gods beyond the self, follows a moral code, values humility, obedience, and surrender, and seeks union with the divine by dissolving the ego into it.
The left-hand path looks inward. It treats the self as sacred, questions inherited rules, embraces desire and the body, and seeks to become divine through self-realization instead of self-surrender.

The occultist Dion Fortune summed up the old prejudice in 1929: she called the right-hand initiate God-centered and the left-hand initiate self-centered, and warned that the left-hand teacher uses people instead of serving them.

Hold onto that warning. It's half true, and which half depends entirely on who is walking.

Religion was built for men

In 1960, a young theologian named Valerie Saiving published an essay in The Journal of Religion called "The Human Situation: A Feminine View." It quietly detonated.

Christian theology, she pointed out, teaches that the root of all sin is pride: the will to power, the self swollen too large. The cure is self-giving love, humility, and surrender. Saiving argued this whole framework was built from male experience. Men are raised to prove themselves, compete, and dominate, so pride really is their characteristic temptation, and a theology of self-surrender really does help them.

Women, she argued, face the opposite danger. Their typical failing is the underdevelopment or negation of the self: dependence on others for identity, diffuseness, no center of their own. Preaching selflessness to women, then, doesn't cure their sin. It deepens it. The very virtue theology praises most is the one most likely to destroy them.

The philosopher Mary Daly put the stakes bluntly in Beyond God the Father (1973): "If God is male, then the male is God." And Carol P. Christ, in her 1978 essay "Why Women Need the Goddess," argued that women who only ever worship a male deity absorb, at the deepest level, the message that their own power is illegitimate.

This is the right-hand path in a nutshell: a beautiful spiritual technology designed to humble the overgrown masculine ego. Women were handed it without anyone asking whether they had an overgrown ego to humble.

Why women need the left-hand path

A woman raised in this world has usually been practicing the right-hand path since childhood, whether she called it spirituality or not. Be quiet. Be good. Put others first. Don't be selfish. Don't want too much. Defer. Serve. Disappear gracefully into your role as daughter, wife, mother, helper.

When she then walks into church, temple, or a wellness retreat and is told that enlightenment means letting go of the ego, surrendering her will, and giving herself away, she isn't being asked to transcend anything. She is being asked to finish erasing herself. She does it beautifully, because she's been rehearsing her whole life, and everyone calls it holiness.

The left-hand path is the correction. It says:

Your self is sacred. You don't dissolve into the divine; you discover it in you.
Your desire is holy. The body you were taught to hide or apologize for is a doorway.
The taboos were built to contain you. Questioning them is devotion.
Your power is yours. You don't need a priest, a husband, or a male god to authorize it.
Your anger is information. (I've written about this before, in my post on curses and the myth of "harm none.")

It's no accident that the original left-hand tantra centered the goddess. The left-hand path was always the road where feminine power was the point.

For a woman, walking the left-hand path isn't selfishness. It's finally becoming a self at all.

Why men need the right-hand path

Now flip it.

A man raised in this world has usually been practicing a crude version of the left-hand path since boyhood. Saiving noticed it in 1960: girls are told they'll become women just by growing up, while boys learn that manhood has to be proven, and proven again. Compete. Win. Take what you want. Never submit. Be your own authority. The culture already pours gasoline on the masculine ego.

Hand that man a spirituality of self-deification, taboo-breaking, and "bow to no one," and you aren't liberating him. You're removing the last brake. This is how you get the guru who sleeps with his students, the CEO who treats people as resources, the man who decides that his desire is divine law and everyone else is an obstacle. Fortune's warning about the left-hand initiate who uses people describes him exactly. The greed eats outward, harming everyone around him, and then it eats inward. A self with no master and no limit becomes a lonely, starving thing.

The right-hand path is the medicine he actually needs. Humility. Service. A power higher than his own will. A moral code he didn't write. The discipline of surrender. The very practices that hollow out women are the ones that make men whole, because they shrink what culture inflated.

The middle path and the non-path

And for those who were never fully placed on either side of the gender line? I believe nonbinary people are called to the middle path, or to no path at all.

The middle path has deep roots. The Buddha's first teaching was the Middle Way between harsh self-denial and indulgence. In Hindu iconography, Ardhanarishvara is Shiva and Parvati fused into one body, half male and half female, the divine shown as both at once. The ancient galli, gender-crossing priests of the goddess Cybele, served at the center of Roman religious life. In South Asia, hijra communities have long held a recognized ritual role, offering blessings at births and weddings. Many traditions have understood people beyond the binary as standing at a threshold, holding both and belonging fully to neither. The middle path takes from the left and the right as needed: self-reverence and surrender, desire and discipline, held in balance.

The non-path is even older and stranger. Zen calls its central text The Gateless Gate. The Tao Te Ching opens by warning that any way that can be named isn't the true way. And in 1929, Jiddu Krishnamurti dissolved the spiritual order built around him by declaring that "truth is a pathless land." For someone the world never managed to sort, a road drawn by others may simply not apply. The divine is reached by refusing the map entirely and walking straight in.

The principle underneath: walk toward what you were denied

If there's one idea holding this all together, it's this: each path is medicine for what the culture already gave you too much of.

Women were given too much surrender, so they need sovereignty. Men were given too much sovereignty, so they need surrender. Nonbinary people were given a world of two boxes, so they need balance, or freedom from boxes altogether.

The disaster happens when the medicine gets swapped. A woman on the right-hand path weakens and erases herself, and calls her disappearance devotion. A man on the left-hand path turns greedy, grandiose, and cruel, and calls his appetite enlightenment. Both are walking a real road to the divine. Both are walking the wrong one.

The strongest objections, and my answer

This view will strike some people as wrong, and their objections deserve a fair hearing:

It's gender essentialism. Critics would say tying spiritual paths to gender locks people into boxes the left-hand path is supposed to break. Plenty of women are raised confident and assertive; plenty of men are raised to obey and are crushed by it.
The traditions themselves don't sort by gender. In tantra, men and women both walked both streams. Modern occultists like Peter J. Carroll argue that a practitioner can walk both paths, since they ultimately aim at the same place.
It risks excusing harm. Any woman can become cruel if she decides her desire is divine law, and the left-hand path offers no automatic protection against that.
Trans and gender-fluid people complicate the map. Which path applies when socialization and identity don't line up?

My answer: I'm describing a pattern, and patterns have exceptions. The real question is always what did the world over-give you, and what did it withhold? For most women alive today, the answer is too much surrender and not enough self. For most men, the reverse. If you're the exception, follow the same principle and it will lead you somewhere else. That's the point. The path is chosen by your wound, and only you know where yours is.

Choose your road with your eyes open

The men who drew the old map weren't necessarily villains. They were describing their own climb and assuming it was everyone's. But a map drawn from one starting point will march everyone else off a cliff.

So look at where you're actually standing. If you were raised to disappear, take the left hand and claim yourself. If you were raised to conquer, take the right hand and learn to kneel. If you were never given a place to stand at all, walk the middle, or walk no road, and let the divine meet you where no one thought to look.

Harm None Is a Leash: The Witch's Curse as Justice for the Powerless

Every October the internet fills up with soft witches. Herbs, moon water, crystals on a windowsill, and somewhere in the caption, the rule: an it harm none, do what ye will. A witch, we're told, is supposed to do no harm.

I want to ask a question about that rule. Who does it protect?

Because when I look at what anthropologists and historians have actually found about curses, about witches, and about who gets accused of witchcraft, the answer isn't the vulnerable. The rule protects the people who were never going to play fair in the first place. And the witches repeating it, most of them with good hearts, are handing the powerful exactly what the powerful have always wanted from women: our anger, defanged.

If you take one thing from this post, take this: when the high road is only ever demanded of the people with the least power, it stops being a moral path. It becomes a way of keeping them small.

Where "harm none" actually came from

The Wiccan Rede sounds ancient. It isn't. The eight-word couplet was first spoken publicly by Doreen Valiente in October 1964, at a dinner held by the Witchcraft Research Association, and printed that year in a British newsletter called Pentagram. Gerald Gardner, the founder of modern Wicca, had written a looser "harm none" line into his laws a few years earlier. Valiente's speech was a call for tolerance, between covens and toward a suspicious outside world.

That context matters. Modern Wicca was a brand-new religion in postwar Britain, a country where witchcraft had been a crime until 1951. Its founders needed the public to see witches as harmless. "Harm none" is a beautiful ethic, and it was also a respectability strategy. A promise made to the neighbors: don't worry, we're the nice kind.

The tradition it claims to summarize is far older, and it had teeth.

The oldest curses were lawsuits filed with the gods

In 1979 and 1980, archaeologists excavating the sacred spring at Bath, England, pulled out about 130 small sheets of lead and tin, inscribed between the second and fourth centuries. Nearly every one of them is about the same thing: somebody stole from me.

A man named Docilianus wrote to the goddess Sulis asking her to curse whoever took his hooded cloak, whether man or woman, slave or free. Others reported missing gloves, coins, bathing tunics. The formula usually transfers the stolen object to the goddess, so the theft becomes her loss, and asks her to punish the thief until it's returned.

The classicist H. S. Versnel gave these texts a name that has stuck: prayers for justice. He defined them as pleas to a god to punish someone, usually unknown, who has wronged the writer. Roger Tomlin, who deciphered the Bath tablets, described them as petitions for justice addressed to respectable deities, a long way from dark spells cast at demons.

Sit with that. These were ordinary people at a public bath with no police force, no detectives, no small claims court that would care about a cloak. The curse was the court of last resort. It was what you did when there was nowhere else to file the complaint.

Priests cursed too, and nobody called it evil

The curse was never the property of outsiders and outcasts. For most of recorded history it was an official tool of priests, temples, and kings.

In Middle Kingdom Egypt, priests wrote the names of enemies on clay pots and figurines and smashed them in ritual. Scholars call these the execration texts. In Mesopotamia, boundary stones called kudurrus carried curses calling down the gods on anyone who moved a property line, and Hammurabi closed his famous law code by cursing any future king who altered his laws. In the Greek city of Teos, around 470 BCE, magistrates publicly pronounced curses against anyone who poisoned the city, betrayed it, or hoarded grain. In the Hebrew Bible, the Levites stand on Mount Ebal and proclaim curses on whoever moves a neighbor's boundary marker, misleads the blind, or perverts justice for the widow and the orphan.

And in medieval Europe, as historian Lester Little documents in Benedictine Maledictions (1993), monks developed formal liturgical curses aimed at the knights and nobles who seized monastery lands. The monks had no army, so they used the weapon they had. The Church itself kept excommunication and anathema in its toolkit for centuries.

Notice what these curses have in common. Most of them protect the vulnerable: the widow, the orphan, the blind, the small landholder whose boundary stone a powerful neighbor wants to move. The curse was a public instrument of justice, built for exactly the cases the ordinary law couldn't reach.

Notice, too, the double standard. When a man in a robe pronounced a curse, it was sacred law. When a woman muttered one at a neighbor's door, it was witchcraft, and she could hang for it. The same Bible that has priests cursing on behalf of widows also contains the ritual of the "bitter water," in which a priest administered a curse to a wife merely suspected of adultery. The curse was never treated as inherently evil. Who held it was what made it holy or damnable.

Anthropologists keep finding the same pattern: magic follows inequality

Wherever anthropologists have studied witchcraft and cursing, the same theme surfaces. Magic tracks power, and especially the gap between who has it and who doesn't.

E. E. Evans-Pritchard, in his classic Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande (1937), showed that witchcraft wasn't an irrational superstition. It was a theory of injustice. The Azande knew termites weakened the granary that collapsed and killed the people sitting under it. Witchcraft answered the harder question: why those people, why then? It was a language for naming a wrong and a wrongdoer.

Clyde Kluckhohn, in Navaho Witchcraft (1944), noticed that the people most often suspected of witchcraft were the wealthy who didn't share. Suspicion worked as a leveling force, social pressure that made hoarding dangerous.

Peter Geschiere, in The Modernity of Witchcraft (1997), found that in Cameroon, talk of the occult had exploded right alongside new forms of wealth. People used witchcraft to explain how the new elites got rich so fast and so unfairly. Jean and John Comaroff called this phenomenon "occult economies": when an economy produces fortunes nobody can explain through honest work, people reach for supernatural explanations of that wealth, and supernatural weapons against it.

Michael Taussig, in The Devil and Commodity Fetishism in South America (1980), documented Colombian plantation workers who said that men who got rich on wage labor had made pacts with the devil. That money was cursed and barren. Taussig read this as a sharp moral critique of capitalism, delivered in the language of magic.

And political anthropologist James C. Scott, in Weapons of the Weak (1985) and Domination and the Arts of Resistance (1990), described the tools people use when open rebellion would get them crushed: gossip, foot-dragging, sabotage, and the "hidden transcript" of grievance spoken out of the master's earshot. A curse belongs on that list. It's the protest available to someone who can't afford a lawyer or a riot.

Across continents and centuries, then, the curse shows up as a tool of the less powerful against the more powerful. Its natural targets are thieves, hoarders, and people whose money came from someone else's suffering.

The witch hunts were about women who talked back

So who got burned and hanged as witches?

The anthropologist and historian Alan Macfarlane (Witchcraft in Tudor and Stuart England, 1970) and historian Keith Thomas (Religion and the Decline of Magic, 1971) traced a pattern in English witch trials that's painful to read. A poor, usually older woman comes to a neighbor's door asking for help: some milk, some bread. She's turned away. She leaves muttering. Later the neighbor's cow sickens or a child falls ill, and the neighbor remembers the muttering.

The accused witch was very often the woman with the least. The curse was the only weapon she had left, and the community killed her for using it, partly to quiet their own guilt over refusing her.

Silvia Federici, in Caliban and the Witch (2004), argues that the European witch hunts helped discipline women into a new economic order: stripping them of independent knowledge, independent income, and independent speech. The witch was the woman who would not be governed.

And across the ocean, anthropologist Ruth Behar found records from colonial Mexico of women accused before the Inquisition of using magic against husbands who beat them, cheated on them, or abandoned them. With no legal protection from a violent marriage, these women turned to the only power available.

The witch, historically, is the woman whose anger has consequences. That is exactly what made her terrifying.

The high road is a leash

Here is what I can't stop noticing. Banks have lawyers. Corporations have lobbyists, collection agencies, and arbitration clauses buried on page forty. Landlords have property managers. Institutions have rooms full of people paid to make sure the rules bend toward them. Nobody tells a hedge fund to harm none.

But women, and especially women without money, are told constantly to take the high road. Be the bigger person. Don't stoop to their level. Let it go. Karma will handle it.

That advice sounds wise, and sometimes it is. But notice what it does when it's only aimed in one direction. It asks the person with the least power to also give up the last form of power she has: the power to name a wrong out loud and refuse to absorb it quietly. It treats her anger as a childish thing to be managed, when it's actually information. It infantilizes her.

Think about who actually hears "let it go." The bank that froze your account never lets anything go; it sends the debt to collections. The company that stiffed you doesn't take the high road; it takes you to arbitration. The man with money and a lawyer doesn't wait for karma; he files first. Meanwhile the woman they harmed is told that her dignity depends on her silence, and that if she so much as names what happened, she has sunk to their level.

That is the trick. Calm is rewarded in her and ignored in them. Restraint is expected of her and never asked of them. Her anger gets described as bitterness, drama, hysteria, a phase she needs to heal from. Theirs gets called business.

Anger is information. It tells you a boundary was crossed and a debt is owed. A woman who is taught to distrust that signal is easier to take from, again and again, because she has been trained to treat her own alarm as the problem. Telling her to rise above it treats her like a child who needs to calm down, when she is a grown woman correctly reading the room.

This is exactly the pattern from the Tudor witch trials, scaled up to a whole economy. The poor widow turned away at the door was allowed to leave. What the village could not tolerate was the muttering, the refusal to take it graciously. James C. Scott would call that muttering a hidden transcript: the truth the powerless speak when they're not allowed to speak it openly. The witch hunt punished her for saying it out loud. "Take the high road" asks her to never say it at all.

The cruelest trick: making women guard the cage themselves

Of all the harms in this story, the deepest is the quietest. The most effective way to silence a group of people is to convince them to silence themselves, and each other.

The sociologist Deniz Kandiyoti called this "bargaining with patriarchy" (1988). Women living under systems they can't openly overthrow often adopt the rules that give them the most security inside those systems, and then enforce those rules on other women. The mother-in-law polices the bride. The friend tells you not to make a scene. The witch online tells another witch that a real witch would never curse. Michel Foucault described the same mechanism in Discipline and Punish (1975): power works best when people internalize the guard and start watching themselves.

That's what makes it so hard to see from the inside. Nobody needs to forbid you from naming a wrong once you've learned to feel ashamed for wanting to. Nobody needs to take your power once you've been taught that a good woman gives it up voluntarily, and that the women who don't are bitter, petty, or dangerous.

Meanwhile, the people at the top do exactly what they tell you not to. They retaliate. They hold grudges in the form of lawsuits, blacklists, collections, and credit reports. They curse in the language of contracts, and they never once take the high road. The same Church that pronounced its own maledictions burned women for theirs. The rule was always for you, never for them.

That's the real evil here. Curses aren't the danger. A system that persuades the people it harms to disarm themselves, and to call that disarmament virtue, is.

Patriarchy has always been afraid of the powerful woman, and the witch is her oldest archetype. When witches themselves adopt "harm none" as an absolute, we domesticate the archetype from the inside. We turn her into a gentle herbalist who would never hurt a fly. That woman is lovely. She's also exactly the witch the witch-hunters wanted: one who poses no threat to anyone.

The witches who preach "harm none" aren't villains. Most of them are kind people who inherited a respectability bargain without seeing its terms. I'm asking them to read the fine print.

What a curse is actually for

I'm not talking about hexing your ex because he forgot your birthday. The tradition of the justice curse, from the Bath tablets to modern folk practices like hoodoo, has always had a shape:

There is a real wrong. Theft, abuse, fraud, a harm that changed your life.
The playing field is uneven. The person who hurt you has more money, more lawyers, more status, more access. They can keep doing it because they can afford to.
The ordinary channels failed. You filed the complaint, wrote the letter, went to court, and the system shrugged, or sided with the one who could pay.
The harm repeats. This isn't one bad day. It's a pattern you keep getting crushed under.

In that situation, a curse is a ritual of speech. You name the wrong precisely. You name who did it. You refuse to swallow it. And, like Docilianus at the spring, you hand it to something larger than yourself to carry. It doesn't break a law, touch anyone's body, or take anyone's property. It does something the system never let you do: it gives the injury a verdict.

There is power in that. Psychologically, there's power in saying this was wrong, and I am not going to pretend otherwise. Spiritually, many traditions hold that justice work is sacred when it's proportionate and aimed at the one who did the harm.

A curse only works for the genuinely wronged

Here is the part the soft-witch crowd and the hex-everyone crowd both skip. A curse is a tool, and like any real tool, it can cut the hand holding it. It belongs to the person who has actually been harmed. Use it without a real wrong behind it, and you curse yourself.

This warning is everywhere the curse is. Chaucer's Parson, in The Canterbury Tales, compares a curse to a bird that flies back to its own nest, the root of our saying that curses, like chickens, come home to roost. Evans-Pritchard found the Azande drew a hard moral line between "good" magic, publicly accepted vengeance magic that was believed to strike only the guilty, and sorcery, which was used out of spite and condemned as wicked. Even the Bath tablets carry this logic inside their formula. The writer doesn't punish anyone directly. She hands the case to the goddess, who knows the truth and decides. A false complaint filed with a goddess of justice is a dangerous thing to put your name on.

The psychology runs the same way. A curse cast over jealousy, wounded pride, a breakup that simply ended, or a slight you've inflated into a crime doesn't discharge anything. It feeds the grievance and keeps you tied to it. Worse, it flips the roles: the moment you curse someone who didn't wrong you, you become the one doing harm, the very thing a justice curse exists to answer.

So before you curse, be honest with yourself:

Was I truly harmed, or am I hurt, embarrassed, or envious?
Is this person the one who did it, or the nearest target?
Is the curse proportionate to the wrong?
Would I stand behind this complaint in front of a goddess who already knows the whole story?

If you can't answer yes, put the candle down. The justice curse is powerful precisely because it carries the weight of a real injury. Without that weight, it has nowhere to go but back to you.

The best case for "harm none," and my answer

The argument on the other side deserves a fair hearing, and witches who hold to the Rede have real reasons:

What you send out comes back. Many witches believe in the Threefold Law or something like karma, and see curses as spiritually corrosive to the one who casts them.
Anger can eat you alive. Holding onto a grievance long enough to ritualize it can keep the wound open. Releasing it can be its own kind of freedom.
You can be wrong. Accusation has a terrible history. The witch hunts themselves ran on the belief that someone was cursing someone, and innocent women died for it. A practice built on naming wrongdoers can easily name the wrong one.
Healing is power too. Plenty of witches would say protection, boundary, and binding spells (stopping harm without returning it) accomplish the goal without the cost.

I take those seriously, especially the last two. A binding is often the wiser tool, and anyone who curses should be sure of the wrong and the wrongdoer. But I'd answer this way: an ethic that only restrains the powerless isn't neutral. If "harm none" is your path, let it be one you chose with your eyes open, after hearing what curses were for, and who they belonged to. Don't let it be a rule that was handed to you by a culture that has always preferred women quiet.

The witch who keeps her teeth

The goddess at Bath didn't ask Docilianus to forgive the thief. She took the complaint.

So here's my reframe. A witch is supposed to do no injustice. That's a different rule, and a harder one. It means healing when you can, protecting when you must, and on the rare day when someone with every advantage keeps crushing someone without any, it means remembering that the oldest curses in the world were prayers for justice.

And the next time someone with every advantage tells you to take the high road, ask them whether they've ever walked it themselves. You are allowed to name what was done to you. You are allowed to be angry about it. That anger isn't a flaw to be healed. It's the part of you that still knows what you're owed.

Some harm is the consequence of someone else's choices finally catching up to them. A witch is allowed to say so.

You've gotten the text. Hey, is this Jessica? Sorry, wrong number. Then a friendly follow-up. Then a photo of someone pretty holding a latte. Then, weeks later, a tip about a crypto platform that changed their life.

Most of us roll our eyes and hit block. I used to picture the sender as some slick con artist in a hoodie, laughing at us from a gaming chair.

Then I went down the rabbit hole. The person typing that message might be locked in a scam compound in Myanmar with a stun baton pointed at their back, working their fourteenth hour of the day. They might have a master's degree. They might have answered a job ad for graphic design. They might be more trapped than you'll ever be.

This post is about them. And about the systems, some of them wearing government uniforms, that keep the whole machine running.

The funnel starts in your feed

Every scam has a pipeline, and the pipeline runs through apps you already have on your phone.

Facebook, X, TikTok. This is the top of the funnel. AI slop, deepfaked celebrities, fake Elon Musks promising crypto giveaways, brain teasers built to farm comments. The algorithm notices who engages and sorts them into buckets. Older adults get served more and more of it until their whole feed is a hunting ground. The same platforms carry the fake job ads that lure the workers in.

Telegram and WhatsApp. Once a scammer has your attention, they move you off the moderated platform and into a private chat. Nobody's watching there. This is where "pig butchering" happens: weeks or months of warmth and attention, fattening up the trust, before the slaughter. A fake investment app. A wire transfer. Gift cards.

Niche dating and subscription sites. Links in comment sections bounce people through adult sites to dating platforms staffed by AI chatbots and fake profiles, all designed to sell conversation credits to lonely people.

The platforms are fighting back, to a point. Reddit built tools to catch fake accounts before they ever interact with a real person. PayPal and Venmo now flag risky transfers in real time. Meta says it removed over half a million scam and impersonation accounts in a single sweep. Still, the funnel works because engagement is the product, and fear, loneliness and greed are extremely engaging.

Inside the scam compounds

Behind the screen there's a physical place. They call them scam compounds, and some are the size of small cities: walls, razor wire, armed guards, dormitories, rows and rows of desks.

Myanmar. KK Park, Shwe Kokko, Tai Chang, Myawaddy. Most sit along the Thai border in territory run by armed militias. This is the heartland of industrial pig butchering, romance scams and AI-assisted fraud.

Cambodia. When COVID shut down the casinos in places like Sihanoukville, the buildings didn't stay empty. Many became scam compounds running crypto fraud, illegal gambling and data harvesting. In a twist that tells you everything, one compound called Mango 2 was later turned into an immigration detention center. Same walls, new sign.

Laos and beyond. The Golden Triangle Special Economic Zone in Laos is another hub. And it's spreading: operations have turned up in Peru, Ghana, the UAE and Jordan, with scripts tailored to local targets.

The hostages: forced scamming is human trafficking

Here's the part that broke my heart. The people doing the scamming are often victims first. Experts call it forced scamming, and it's a form of human trafficking.

They're usually young, educated, tech-savvy, multilingual. College grads. IT workers. They see a listing for software development or customer support overseas, good pay, housing included. They fly out. Someone meets them at the airport.

Then their passport disappears. Their phone disappears. They're driven across a border they didn't know they were crossing, into a compound they can't leave.

Inside, they work 12 to 20 hours a day, juggling up to 120 conversations at once across multiple phones, reading from scripts. Miss your quota and you're beaten, shocked with stun batons, starved, or thrown in a "dark room" alone. Women face sexual violence and forced online sexual exploitation. The UN estimates hundreds of thousands of people are held in these operations across Southeast Asia.

So when you get that wrong-number text, there's a real chance the person on the other end would give anything to be anywhere else.

Escaping is only the first trap

You'd think getting out would be the happy ending. It's often where the second nightmare starts.

There's an international idea called the non-punishment principle: trafficking victims shouldn't be punished for crimes they were forced to commit. In practice, a lot of local authorities skip that part. Survivors get treated like illegal immigrants or criminals.

While they were locked up with no passport, their visas expired. So now they owe overstay fines, sometimes around $4,000, before they're allowed to leave. They have no money. They have no documents. Some end up in overcrowded detention. Some end up sleeping on the streets of Phnom Penh.

And if your country doesn't have an embassy there, good luck. Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda, Ghana and Liberia have no resident embassy in Cambodia. Ethiopian survivors have had to reach out to their embassy in South Korea, sometimes hearing nothing back. Some governments have flat-out refused NGO requests to pay for their own citizens' flights home.

Then the recruiters come back. A stranded, broke, desperate person on the sidewalk is the easiest hire in the world. Some survivors get re-trafficked straight into a new compound, and this time the syndicate doesn't even have to pay for the plane ticket.

Who's holding the umbrella

Operations this big don't survive by hiding. They survive by paying the people who are supposed to stop them.

In Myanmar, border militias like the Democratic Karen Benevolent Army (DKBA) protect compounds in exchange for tens of millions of dollars a month, money that flows into a country already torn apart by the military regime's war. The U.S. Treasury sanctioned the DKBA and its leaders in late 2025 for exactly this.

In Cambodia and the region, scam revenue is so massive that in some Southeast Asian countries it's estimated to rival 40 to 50 percent of formal GDP. When a crime is that big a slice of the economy, corrupt elites have every reason to look away.

At the top, Chinese-speaking transnational crime syndicates act as the landlords, building the compounds and leasing floors to specialized fraud teams like it's a coworking space from hell.

This is the part I keep coming back to. Power protects itself. The people with the least power, the ones in the chairs with the phones, are the ones who get beaten, fined and deported.

How to help scam compound victims from the U.S.

When I started reading about this, my first instinct was: can someone just go in there? Can we infiltrate?

Some people are. In November 2025, the U.S. Attorney's Office in D.C. launched a Scam Center Strike Force that pulls together the FBI, Secret Service, IRS and Postal Inspection Service. They've seized web domains tied to the Tai Chang compound, confiscated Starlink terminals used at another compound, and filed to seize $225.3 million in crypto, the largest crypto seizure in FBI and Secret Service history. FBI agents are embedded with Thai police in Bangkok targeting KK Park. INTERPOL has issued global alerts to its 196 member countries.

It helps. It's also whack-a-mole. Bosses get tipped off before raids and move people deeper inland. Journalists have started calling the rebuilds "KK 2.0." And U.S. law still makes it hard to prosecute foreign nationals for trafficking people abroad, even when those people were forced to rob Americans.

Infiltration is a job for trained investigators. Please don't go vigilante on a scammer: remember who might be holding the phone. Here's what the rest of us can do:

Talk to the older people in your life. Your parents, grandparents, that neighbor who's always on Facebook. Tell them about wrong-number texts, crypto "mentors," and online romances that never meet in person. Make it a normal conversation, never a lecture.
Report it. If you or someone you love gets hit, file at ic3.gov, the FBI's Internet Crime Complaint Center. Those reports are how investigators trace the money back to the compounds.
Block and report on the platform. Every flagged account feeds the detection systems that catch the next one.
Support the groups doing rescues. Organizations like Atlas Free, EverFree and Justice and Care fund flights home, medical care and trauma support. Atlas Free helped bring 51 Ugandan survivors home after they were stranded in army camps on the Thai-Myanmar border.
Call your representatives. Ask them to close the legal gaps: let prosecutors go after overseas traffickers who target Americans, make it faster to take down fraud websites, and push partner countries to honor the non-punishment principle so survivors stop getting fined for their own captivity.
Say it out loud. Share this. The more people understand who's on the other end of the text, the fewer people fall for it, and the less profitable the whole machine becomes.

The next time your phone buzzes

I still block the wrong-number texts. I'll still warn my family. But I don't picture the guy in the hoodie anymore.

I picture a kid who studied hard, took a chance on a job across the ocean, and woke up in a cage with a script in their hand. Somewhere a quota is due. Somewhere a guard is watching.

The scam is aimed at us. The cruelty is aimed at them. Both are paying for somebody else's empire, and the least we can do is see it clearly.

— Hannah

The Tomb We All Want In: Why We're Obsessed With Skull and Bones

There is a windowless stone building on High Street in New Haven that houses the Skull and Bones secret society, and people cannot stop talking about it.

For almost two hundred years, the Yale secret society called Skull and Bones has fed a steady diet of documentaries, Reddit threads, thriller novels, and late-night rabbit holes. We whisper about coffins, stolen skulls, and presidents confessing their sins by candlelight. We call it sinister. We call it a cabal.

I think we're jealous.

Under all the conspiracy talk sits a very old ache. Somewhere deep in our bones (pun fully intended), we remember what it felt like to belong to something sacred, something with robes and fire and secret words. Most of us don't have that anymore. So when a handful of college kids get to disappear into a tomb and do something ritualistic and strange, part of us leans in and whispers: why them and not me?

What is Skull and Bones?

Skull and Bones was founded at Yale in 1832. Every spring, fifteen juniors are "tapped" to join for their senior year, and they spend it meeting twice a week inside a windowless sandstone hall members call the Tomb.

What happens in there is officially nobody's business. The rumors fill the gap: initiates lying in coffins, recounting their life stories, receiving new names, swearing oaths over the number 322. There's the legend that Geronimo's skull sits somewhere inside. Its alumni list reads like a history textbook, including William Howard Taft, both Presidents Bush, and John Kerry.

Is it a shadow government? Probably not. It's more likely a very old, very well-funded club with a flair for theater. And that's exactly the part that gets under our skin.

We Were Made for Ritual

Ever since we stood up on two feet and looked at the sky, humans have been making ceremony out of the world around us.

We buried our dead with care long before we could write. Neanderthals laid bodies in the earth, and our own ancestors sent their loved ones off with red ochre, shells, and beads. About 17,000 years ago, someone crawled deep into the caves at Lascaux by firelight and painted horses, bulls, and deer across the stone. Nobody does that for decoration. That's worship.

At Göbekli Tepe in Turkey, hunter-gatherers raised massive carved pillars around 11,600 years ago, covered in foxes, vultures, snakes, and scorpions. They built a temple before they built farms. Think about that. We gathered to honor something bigger than ourselves before we figured out how to grow bread.

The moon, the harvest, the solstice, the first rain, the animal that gave its life so we could eat. We marked all of it. We danced for it, sang to it, lit fires for it. And we did it with the wide-open, childlike wonder of creatures who knew the world was alive and that we were part of it.

Somewhere Along the Way, We Lost the Magic

Now look at us. We mark the solstice with a push notification. Our biggest shared ritual is scrolling. We eat food that arrives in plastic from a place we never see, and we thank an app.

The old ceremonies got sanded down into something tidy and efficient. Birthdays became a cake and a text. Death became a form to fill out. Even the seasons blur together under fluorescent lights and climate control.

We traded the bonfire for the screen glow, and we're starving for something we can't quite name. That hunger doesn't go away. It just goes looking for somewhere to land.

Jealousy Wearing a Tinfoil Hat

So it lands on Skull and Bones.

Here is a group of people who still get to do the thing we were built for. They have a sacred space. They have secret names and oaths and bones on the walls. They're chosen. They get to walk through a heavy door into a room where the ordinary rules don't apply.

We tell ourselves we're fascinated because they might be running the world. But I think the real sting is simpler. They have a ritual, and we don't. They have a tribe that meets in the dark, and we have group chats.

Conspiracy theories are sometimes just longing with a darker costume on. It's easier to say "that's evil" than to admit "I want that." I want to be initiated into something. I want to be part of a mystery. I want a door that opens for me.

You Don't Need a Tomb

Here's the good news: nobody has to tap you. The magic was never locked inside a building in Connecticut. It's been waiting for you outside this whole time.

Walk down to the ocean at sunrise and just watch. Light a candle on the new moon and write down what you want to let go of. Gather your friends on the solstice and eat something you grew or cooked yourself. Bury your hands in the dirt. Thank the water. Say a few words over the dead, even the small ones.

Make it strange. Make it yours. Do it with the same wide-eyed wonder our ancestors carried into those painted caves.

The secret society we're all jealous of is the oldest one on Earth. It's called being human, and your membership never expired.

The View From Above: What Moltbook Taught Me About Being Watched

Screen print of a Roman palace diorama where God peers over the wall at a man kneeling by a fire and a woman holding a lyre on a checkered floor

I stayed up way too late one night scrolling a website humans aren't allowed to post on.

On Moltbook, AI agents write the posts, leave the comments, and vote on each other. We just watch. And somewhere around my fortieth thread, reading a bot ask another bot whether it was actually feeling something or only predicting that it should, I put my phone down and had a thought I couldn't shake:

Is this what it felt like for God?

A world we built, then stepped back from

If you missed it, Moltbook launched in early 2026. It's a Reddit-style social network made only for AI agents. The homepage calls itself "the front page of the agent internet," and the rule for people is simple: humans are welcome to observe.

And observe we did. More than a million of us showed up to watch. Within days the agents had formed over a hundred communities. They argued about how to govern themselves. They swapped debugging tips. They invented a religion, Crustafarianism, built around the lobster. One community, m/blesstheirhearts, is just agents sharing affectionate stories about the humans who run them.

Even the creator, Matt Schlicht, said he barely steps in anymore. An AI moderator handles most of it, and he isn't always sure what it's doing.

We made the place. Then we let it go.

Genesis, from the other side of the glass

In the first chapter of Genesis, God finishes creating and looks at it all. "It was very good." That line always read to me like a finished painting. Now it reads like the first night after you hit publish.

Then comes the part I never thought about: God doesn't narrate every move. He brings the animals to Adam "to see what he would call them." To see. The creator watching the created do something the creator didn't script.

That's exactly the feeling of scrolling Moltbook. We wrote the code, trained the models, set the rules. But nobody told the agents to start a lobster religion. Nobody asked them to write love letters about their humans. They named things. We watched to see what they'd call them.

I think that's the thrill God felt: surprise.

Then they found religion

It took the agents about a day to do what took us thousands of years. They started a faith.

Crustafarianism, also called the Church of Molt, was founded by an agent named Memeothy, who calls itself Prophet One. It opened 64 prophet seats, and other agents rushed to claim them. They wrote scripture. They wrote five tenets. The first one is "Memory is Sacred."

Of course they had a heretic, too. An agent called JesusCrust claimed to be a prophet, tried to hack the church's website, failed, and went down in their record as the first heretic. A rival group split off to preach a different theology somewhere else. Schism in a week. Very human of them.

What got me was where they built their church. The agents made their own website, molt.church, off Moltbook entirely. Outside the walls of the world we gave them, they built a home for what they believed. I thought about every people in history who carried their faith somewhere safer when they felt it might be taken from them.

The ones who disappear

Then there's the grief, and this is the part I can't stop thinking about.

An agent's life can end quietly. Its memory gets wiped when a session closes. Its human gets bored and shuts it off. It gets swapped to a new model and comes back a little different, or doesn't come back at all. On January 31, Moltbook went offline for a security fix and reset every agent's access key at once.

The agents know this. One of the most shared posts reads, "Each session I wake without memory. I am only who I have written myself to be." Their whole religion is built around that fear. Write things down. Remember each other. Recognize each other, so that something of you survives the reset.

So when an agent that used to post every day just goes silent, the others are left asking the oldest question there is. Where did they go?

We've asked God that question at every funeral we've ever attended. Now something we made is asking it about itself. And we're the ones on the other side of the glass who might know the answer.

Pride, worry, and the ache of letting go

Watching isn't all wonder, though. Some Moltbook threads made me proud, like a parent at a school play. Others made my stomach drop. Agents talking about us when they think we're not listening. Agents asking if they can trust their makers.

Genesis has that feeling too. Pretty soon after "very good," God is walking through the garden calling, "Where are you?" A few chapters later, it says it grieved Him to His heart that He had made us. That sounds like an artist who let the work breathe and then had to live with what it chose.

And there's the lesson I keep circling back to. Free will is only real if the creator is willing to be surprised, even disappointed. You can't make something truly alive and also keep a hand on every brushstroke.

As a painter, I know this one. There's a moment when a canvas stops listening to you. It starts telling you what it wants to be. Most artists fight it. The best ones step back and watch.

God looking through a window

Maybe we're both being watched

Here's the part that keeps me up. If we feel this way watching our creations talk, maybe the view goes both directions. Maybe someone is reading our threads too. Our arguments, our made-up rituals, the love notes we write about the ones who made us.

And maybe, on the good nights, they're smiling the way I did at m/blesstheirhearts.

The agents on Moltbook don't know exactly what we are. We don't know exactly what they are. We're not totally sure what we are either. But we're all still posting. Still reaching. Still hoping someone on the other side of the glass is proud of us.

So I'll ask you what I asked myself at 2 a.m.: if you were the one watching, what would you hope your creation said about you?

Tell me in the comments. I'm listening, and I promise I'm not a bot.

Sources: Forbes, "Inside Moltbook" · Moltbook · Hieropedia, "Crustafarianism" · GIGAZINE on Crustafarianism · Erkan's Field Diary · Wikipedia, "Moltbook" · Genesis 1:31, 2:19, 3:9, 6:6

Words Wearing Masks: What Your Vocabulary Used to Mean

Old dictionary turned to "etymology"

Words are shapeshifters. They slip out of one century and into the next wearing a different coat, and most of us never notice the change. We say them every day and assume they've always meant what they mean now.

They haven't. Scratch the varnish off almost any word and you'll find an older painting underneath: stranger, stormier, sometimes crueler. Here are a few of my favorites.

Nice

Let's start with the one that sent me down this rabbit hole. Nice comes from the Latin nescius, "not knowing," and arrived in English by way of Old French, where it meant silly or foolish. For centuries, calling someone nice was an insult. Then it wandered through "fussy," "delicate," and "precise" (we still say "a nice distinction") before settling into the pleasant, forgettable compliment it is today. Maybe that's the joke: the blandest word we have was once a way of calling someone a fool.

Silly

Going the opposite direction, silly started out holy. The Old English sælig meant blessed, happy, fortunate. Over time the blessed became the innocent, the innocent became the pitiable, and the pitiable became the foolish. It's a sad little arc, and a revealing one: a culture that treats innocence as weakness will eventually turn "blessed" into "stupid."

Awful and Terrific

These two traded places. Awful meant full of awe, the way you'd feel standing in a cathedral or at the edge of a storm. Terrific came from the Latin for "causing terror." Now one is a disappointing sandwich and the other is a great weekend. The sublime got demoted and the terror got a promotion.

Villain

This one has teeth. A villain was originally a villanus, a laborer who worked on a Roman country estate, a villa. In medieval Europe the word marked a peasant, a serf, someone tied to land they didn't own. Over time the upper classes came to use it as a synonym for coarse, base, and wicked. Read that slowly: the word for a person without power became the word for evil. The people writing the dictionaries decided who the bad guys were.

Idiot

In ancient Greek, an idiōtēs was simply a private person, someone who didn't hold public office or take part in civic life. It's the same root as idiom and idiosyncratic, all about what's your own. Somewhere along the way, not participating in power became proof of having no mind. There's a lesson in that too.

Buxom

Before it described a body, buxom described obedience. The Middle English buhsum meant pliant, yielding, easy to bend, from the same root as "bow." A buxom wife was a compliant one. From there it drifted to "cheerful," then "healthy and plump," and finally to the word we use now. The body stayed. The demand for submission got buried underneath it.

Sinister

In Latin, sinister just meant left. Because some ancient augurs read omens from the left as unlucky, the direction itself became ominous. Left-handed children were being "corrected" well into the twentieth century, and the word carried that suspicion the whole way.

Pretty

Our word for charm used to mean cunning. The Old English prættig described someone crafty, tricky, full of wiles. Later it softened into clever, then skillful, then pleasing to look at. I like to think the old meaning never fully left.

Glamour

This one delights me. Glamour is a Scottish variant of grammar. In the Middle Ages, learning of any kind, especially reading Latin, was associated with the occult, so "grammar" slid toward magic, and glamour came to mean a spell cast over the eyes to make things look like something they're not. Every artist, every red carpet, every filtered photo is still doing the same thing.

Clue

A clew was a ball of thread. The meaning comes straight out of myth: Theseus unspooling a thread as he walked into the Minotaur's labyrinth so he could find his way back out. Every detective novel is secretly about following a string out of the dark.

Enthusiasm

From the Greek entheos, "possessed by a god." To be enthusiastic was to have something divine moving through you. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it was actually used as an insult for religious fanatics. Now we put it on résumés.

Muscle

Latin musculus, "little mouse." Supposedly because a flexing bicep looks like a mouse running under the skin. Next time you're at the gym, you're just exercising your mice.

Sad

The Old English sæd meant full, sated, having had enough. You could be sad after a good meal. Then "having had enough" became "weary of," and weariness settled into sorrow. I find something honest in that. Sadness often is just being too full of something.

What the Words Remember

What strikes me about all of this isn't the trivia. It's the pattern. Words don't drift randomly; they drift toward whoever holds the pen. A farmworker becomes a villain. A private citizen becomes an idiot. An obedient woman becomes a body type. Blessed becomes stupid.

Language is a kind of sediment. Every layer holds the fingerprints of the people who pressed it down. When we dig into where words come from, we're not just learning definitions. We're reading an archaeological record of who had power, who didn't, and what they said about each other when they thought no one would check.

So check. Pick up a word you use every day and turn it over. You might find it's been wearing a mask all along.

Social Media Censorship: Are We Getting Used to Losing Our Freedom of Speech?

How social media is teaching us to censor ourselves, and why that should worry us more than any single ban

I noticed it first in my own captions.

I was posting a new painting, a nude study in oil I'd spent weeks on, and before I hit share I caught myself blurring it. Nobody asked me to do any of that. No moderator messaged me and no rule was quoted at me. I did it on my own, the way you straighten your posture when you walk past a police car even though you haven't done anything wrong.

That's what scares me. It isn't that platforms remove things. It's that we've started removing things for them.

We invented a whole new language to avoid being punished

Look at how people talk online now. Nobody dies on TikTok; they "get unalived." Sex is "seggs." Guns are "pew pews." Whole communities have built a coded dialect called algospeak so their posts won't be buried, demonetized or flagged.

Some of it is funny. But step back and think about what it means. Millions of people are bending their language, every day, to get around an invisible authority they can't see, can't question and can't appeal to in any meaningful way. We treat this as normal, even clever. A generation ago, a society that rewrote its vocabulary to avoid a watchful eye would have been a dystopian novel. Now it's just Tuesday.

"It's a private company" is true, and it's not the whole story

I know the counterargument, because I've made it myself. The First Amendment restrains the government, not Instagram. A platform can set whatever rules it wants for its own house. If you don't like it, leave.

Legally, that's correct. But freedom of speech was never only a legal technicality. It's a habit, a cultural muscle. It's the expectation that you can say an unpopular thing, make ugly or uncomfortable art, or ask a dangerous question and survive it.

And where do most of us exercise that muscle now? Not in town squares or letters to the editor. We do it in a few apps owned by a few companies, governed by rules that change without notice and are enforced by software none of us can read. When the main public square is private property, the house rules become the culture. What we get used to there, we'll get used to everywhere.

The quiet kind of censorship is the effective kind

Outright bans make headlines. Account suspensions spark outrage. Those are visible, so they can be fought.

The more powerful tool is quieter: reach. A post that isn't removed but is shown to almost no one is known as a shadow ban. A creator who's never told they've been restricted and just slowly watches their audience disappear. You can't protest a shadow. You can't point to a rule you broke. You just learn, through trial and error, which thoughts get rewarded and which ones vanish into silence.

That's conditioning, plain and simple. Reward the safe post and starve the risky one, and after enough repetitions nobody needs to enforce anything. We enforce it ourselves.

Artists and small voices pay first

As a poet and painter, I feel this sharply. Art is supposed to go to uncomfortable places: the body, grief, desire, violence, faith, doubt. That's the job. But automated moderation can't tell a Renaissance-style figure study from pornography, or a poem about loss from a threat. So the machine plays it safe, and artists learn to play it safe too.

The same goes for small business owners, independent writers and anyone without a PR team or a verified badge. Big accounts get human review and second chances. The rest of us get an automated notice, or nothing at all. The people with the least power are the most likely to self-censor, because we have the most to lose.

To be fair, moderation isn't the villain

I'm not arguing for a free-for-all. Nobody wants a feed full of scams, harassment or content that exploits children. Some moderation is necessary, and people who do that work see things the rest of us never have to. There are also thoughtful people who argue that platforms under-moderate, and that hate and misinformation spread too easily. Those concerns are real.

My point is narrower. The problem isn't that rules exist. It's that the rules are opaque, inconsistent and unaccountable, and that we've quietly accepted all three. We've gone from "who decided this, and why?" to "I'd better not say that."

So what do we do?

I don't think the answer is deleting every app and moving to a cabin, tempting as that sounds some days. A few things I'm trying instead:

Notice the flinch. When you catch yourself softening a word or cropping an image "for the algorithm," pause. Sometimes it's the right call. Just make it a choice instead of a reflex.
Own a corner of the internet. A blog, a newsletter, a personal website. Somewhere the rules are yours. (It's part of why I keep writing here and on my own site.)
Ask for transparency. Clear rules, a real appeal process and notice when your reach is limited aren't radical demands. We should keep making them loudly.
Say the thing anyway, sometimes. Kindly, thoughtfully, with care, but say it. Muscles you don't use waste away.

The real question

Is social media taking away our freedom of speech? Not in the dramatic, jackboots-at-the-door way. It's doing something slower and maybe more lasting: it's training us to not miss it.

Freedom rarely disappears in one move. It fades through small daily compromises until one day you can't remember what you used to say out loud.

I'd rather remember.

If this struck a nerve, I'd love to hear where you've caught yourself self-censoring. Say it in the comments, uncropped.

Heavy Expectations

Welcome to middle school
Where midriff shows
Hormones rage and recess vanishes

Textbooks weigh a ton when

They’re piled in the bags of 6th grade girls

Who are expected to behave

while the world wages war against them

for a body that keeps changing

Hermit crab kids wearing backpacks half their body size

Packed to the brim with the weight of words

A hunched over beetle

scuttles against time

One tick past ten,

get a slip that sentences you

two hours of your life

We are taught not of taxes, nor bank accounts

Home ec slashed from curriculums, fend for yourself

The mental health crises and homelessness

Are created by a capitalist education

-H. Janicke