Unsubject by Simon

Simon Lee

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SCIENCES SOCIALES

In an age of noise and propaganda, Unsubject is a map for navigating power, money, and meaning. Host Simon Lee—writer, podcaster, and member of Hong Kong’s global diaspora—dissects economics, policy, and technology with a contrarian edge. Each episode equips you with clarity, context, and survival strategies for a world in flux. unsubject.substack.com

19 SEPT.

The Great America: 250 Years of Reinvention

Two hundred and fifty years is a blink in the span of human civilization. Empires have risen and fallen over centuries; religions have endured for millennia. Yet in that quarter of a millennium, the United States compressed more transformation into its history than perhaps any other society. What makes the American story remarkable is not stability or continuity, but turbulence, risk, and reinvention. Greatness in America was never about being perfect, nor about being “great again.” It was about staying forever young, propelled by institutions strong enough to contain conflict and open enough to reward ambition. From the beginning, America was a society that treated failure differently. In Europe, a bankrupt merchant or failed adventurer carried disgrace for life. In America, bankruptcy was a setback, not a sentence. Laws were forgiving, mobility was real, and newcomers found second chances. Alexis de Tocqueville marveled in the 1830s that Americans launched into trade “as if success or failure had no influence on their future condition.” That tolerance of risk created a culture where turbulence became the price of progress. Alexander Hamilton understood this. Born illegitimate in the Caribbean, he arrived in New York as an outsider with nothing but ambition. As Treasury Secretary, he built the scaffolding of American capitalism: a funded national debt, a national bank, tariffs, excises, and support for industry. His aim was not merely solvency but credibility — to make the republic a trustworthy borrower so that capital would flow. He wrote that “a national debt, if it is not excessive, will be to us a national blessing.” To his critics, this sounded reckless. To Hamilton, it was nation-building through trust, a system where finance served opportunity, not just inheritance. Thomas Jefferson, Hamilton’s rival, imagined something different: a republic of yeoman farmers, free from the corruption of banks and cities. He saw Hamilton’s system as a seed of oligarchy. Yet his agrarian ideal was paradoxically sustained by Hamilton’s finance. Without credit, infrastructure, and markets, farmers would remain poor and isolated. Jefferson purchased Louisiana and expanded opportunity, but his farmers needed Hamilton’s canals and credit to prosper. Thus, from the start, America fused two contradictory visions — agrarian egalitarianism and financial capitalism — into a restless hybrid that could adapt. Europe, by contrast, clung to feudal residue. The revolutions of 1848 demanded liberal reform but were crushed by monarchs and aristocrats. Industrialization advanced, but under dynastic control. America was an empire too, but one without emperors. Its legitimacy rested not on bloodlines but on constitutional order. Politics was fiercely partisan, sometimes violent, but elections, not thrones, conferred power. The Civil War tested this experiment. Slavery was the deepest contradiction, but secession also revealed a clash of economic visions: an agrarian system bound to coerced labor versus an industrial, capitalist republic. The Union’s victory destroyed the last vestiges of feudalism and ensured that America would be defined not by cotton but by industry, migration, and knowledge. By 1900, the United States had overtaken Britain as the world’s largest economy. The Gilded Age produced vast fortunes — Rockefeller in oil, Carnegie in steel, Vanderbilt in railroads. Inequality was immense, but unlike Europe, it was fluid rather than permanent. Yesterday’s factory worker could become tomorrow’s shopkeeper. The son of an immigrant could rise into business or politics within a generation. Railroads — more than 170,000 miles laid between 1871 and 1900 — opened markets, lowered barriers, and spread opportunity. Inequality was real, but it was not destiny. America’s mobility made the risk worth taking. Technology amplified this dynamism. Railroads shrank distance. The telegraph and telephone collapsed time. Electricity transformed industry and daily life. Automobiles replaced horse-drawn carriages. Each innovation created new fortunes and destroyed old ones. This was not incremental change but what Joseph Schumpeter later called “creative destruction.” Standard Oil looked unassailable, until new energy and new firms displaced it. Carnegie’s empire seemed permanent, until chemistry and new materials shifted the frontier. In America, permanence was the illusion; disruption was the rule. The Great Depression challenged this ethos. The crash of 1929 was not just a financial panic but a collapse of confidence in capitalism itself. Breadlines stretched across cities, banks failed, unemployment soared. Critics said laissez-faire had run its course. Europe turned to socialism, fascism, and corporatism. Yet America did not abandon capitalism. Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal built scaffolding — Social Security, deposit insurance, public works — but it did not create a European-style social democracy. The aim was not to lock society into stability but to buy time for capitalism to heal. And heal it did, through innovation. Even in the depths of depression, America produced advances in aviation, radio, automobiles, and medicine. World War II confirmed the lesson. Before the war, America’s army was smaller than Romania’s. Its strength lay not in troop numbers but in industrial capacity and engineering ingenuity. Within months, Detroit switched from cars to tanks and bombers. Boeing and Douglas scaled aviation to new heights. Bell Labs advanced radar. The Manhattan Project built the atomic bomb. This was capitalism at full throttle: not central planning, but urgency harnessed to flexibility. America won the war not by being the biggest army, but by being the most creative problem-solver. From 1945 to 1973, the “Golden Age of Capitalism” saw productivity surge, wages rise, and the middle class expand. The GI Bill opened universities to veterans and made homeownership widespread. Highways, suburbs, and consumer culture flourished. Inventions like transistors, computers, and space technology reshaped society. For many Europeans, prosperity seemed to come from welfare states. In America, the deeper driver was innovation. Risk, mobility, and reinvention made the middle class possible. Globally, America anchored a new order. At Versailles, Woodrow Wilson’s principles reshaped international law. At Bretton Woods, the dollar became the world’s anchor currency. Even after gold convertibility ended in 1971, the dollar’s credibility held. Washington built institutions — the IMF, World Bank, NATO, GATT — but its true advantage lay in its private sector and financial depth. Wall Street became the clearinghouse of global capital; American corporations designed and managed global supply chains. The United States was not the largest exporter, but it was the orchestrator of value creation. As manufacturing shifted abroad, America became the first true post-industrial society. Deindustrialization looked like decline to some, but it was actually reinvention. The country moved up the value chain: from making goods to designing them, branding them, financing them, and selling them to the world. McDonald’s exported not just hamburgers but a model of management and supply chains. Procter & Gamble exported detergents and the science of marketing. Apple created an ecosystem of design in California and assembly in China, proving that value lies not in factories but in knowledge and coordination. Nvidia’s chips today underpin the artificial intelligence revolution, another American-led transformation. Silicon Valley embodied the cultural difference. Failure was not shame but experience. Venture capital funded untested ideas. Universities like Stanford and MIT incubated startups. Out of this ecosystem came Microsoft, Apple, Google, Amazon, Facebook. Europe had engineers, Japan had factories, China had labor. But only America combined risk-tolerant culture, deep finance, world-class universities, and openness to talent. That is why the Information Revolution, like the Industrial Revolution before it, was American-led. The fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 seemed to mark the “End of History.” Communism had collapsed; liberal democracy and capitalism looked universal. Yet America’s story was not one of unchallenged triumph. Polarization grew as some regions prospered while others fell behind. The 9/11 attacks reframed security around non-state threats. Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq showed the limits of military power in remaking societies. China offered an alternative model through its “Beijing Consensus,” financing infrastructure and state-led growth across the Global South. But this model produced dependency, corruption, and backlash when projects faltered. It lacked legitimacy, the very foundation Hamilton had prized. Today, America faces a paradox. Its government is often reluctant to act as an empire. Fiscal strain and cultural instincts push Washington inward. Yet America remains the greatest beneficiary of globalization. Its true strength lies not only in government but in its decentralized networks of influence. Apple, Nvidia, Microsoft, and Google design the platforms of the digital age. Wall Street clears global capital. Harvard, MIT, and Stanford train leaders who carry American methods worldwide. Hollywood, Netflix, and the NBA project culture into billions of homes. Civil society — NGOs, foundations, churches, think tanks — promotes openness and pluralism. No other society possesses such an interlocking ecosystem of influence. This is why the United States remains exceptional. Its genius has never been in perfection but in reinvention. Its capitalism is turbulent, but turbulence is the price of mobility. Its politics are polarized, but institutions endure. Its inequalities are real, but they are not destiny. America’s greatness is not a thing to be regained. It is the continu

19 min
17 SEPT.

McCarthyism's Long Shadow

It was 1954. Millions of Americans sat glued to their television sets as Senator Joseph McCarthy, once the most feared man in Washington, was humiliated during the Army–McCarthy hearings. “Have you no sense of decency, sir?” the famous rebuke rang out, and the chamber fell silent. For many, it was the moment the fever broke, when the republic seemed to reawaken from a nightmare of suspicion and silence. Yet the deeper story of McCarthyism is not about one demagogue brought low, but about the unsettling ease with which free people turned against the very liberties they had so recently celebrated as the essence of their national identity. The United States, born of a revolution against tyranny and consecrated in the Bill of Rights, prided itself as the world’s beacon of liberty. And yet, within a few years of victory in World War II, it constructed elaborate loyalty programs, compelled citizens to sign oaths renouncing ideological sins, and allowed neighbors, colleagues, and artists to be branded “un-American” for the smallest hint of dissent. How could the land of Jefferson and Lincoln come to mirror, however faintly, the authoritarian systems it opposed abroad? The answer lies in the dynamics of fear, power, and political expediency. The early Cold War was not simply a foreign policy conflict; it was an internal reckoning about who counted as “truly American” and how far the government could go in policing thought. The atomic bomb in Soviet hands, the “loss” of China, and the bloody stalemate in Korea stoked anxieties of betrayal from within. Political entrepreneurs seized the moment, weaponizing patriotism into suspicion, and suspicion into purge. Congress, the FBI, universities, Hollywood studios, and entire professions became arenas where liberty was curtailed in the name of protecting it. But repression did not end with McCarthy’s downfall. The apparatus of surveillance and suspicion outlived him, shaping the boundaries of dissent for decades. And just as telling, the backlash against this era, expressed in the civil rights marches, student uprisings, and cultural revolutions of the 1960s and 1970s, was fueled by a generation determined never again to live in silence. McCarthyism was a wound and a catalyst. It scarred the republic, but it also provoked the most far-reaching reassertion of freedom in modern American history. This essay asks a simple but disturbing question: why do free societies turn against their own freedoms? By tracing the rise, practice, and long shadow of McCarthyism, we can glimpse the fragility of liberty, and understand how American democracy, even in its most fearful moments, carries within it both the seeds of repression and the potential for renewal. Seeds of Suspicion: The Cold War Domestic Context The fear that gripped the United States in the late 1940s and early 1950s did not appear out of nowhere. To understand McCarthyism, we must first place ourselves in a world that seemed, to many Americans, to be unraveling. Only a few years earlier, the United States had emerged from World War II as the undisputed leader of the “free world.” It had defeated Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan, possessed the world’s strongest economy, and held a monopoly on the atomic bomb. Americans believed they were living in a moment of triumph, with their ideals of liberty and democracy set to guide the world. Yet within a very short span of time, that sense of security collapsed into dread. The Soviet Union, once a war ally, quickly became the United States’ primary adversary. In 1949, the Soviets shocked Washington by detonating their own atomic bomb, ending the U.S. monopoly on nuclear weapons years earlier than expected. That same year, China, the most populous country on earth, fell to Mao Zedong’s Communist Party, which American officials framed as a catastrophic “loss.” And in 1950, North Korea, backed by Moscow and Beijing, launched a surprise invasion of South Korea, pulling U.S. troops into a brutal war on the Korean Peninsula. To many ordinary Americans, it seemed as though communism was advancing everywhere, and that America’s survival was suddenly at stake. But there was another, deeper anxiety: the possibility that America’s enemies were already inside the gates. The idea of “enemies within” became a powerful narrative. If China could “fall,” perhaps it was because of traitors in the State Department. If the Soviets could develop an atomic bomb so quickly, perhaps it was because spies had handed them secrets. The infamous case of Alger Hiss, a former high-ranking State Department official accused of being a Soviet agent, and the trial of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, executed for passing atomic secrets to Moscow, cemented the fear that betrayal was not just theoretical, it was real. The government’s own policies amplified this climate of suspicion. In 1947, President Harry Truman, himself a Democrat and often accused of being “soft” on communism, launched a sweeping Federal Employee Loyalty Program. This required government workers to prove their loyalty and allowed officials to investigate, even dismiss, employees suspected of “subversive” ties. No actual evidence of espionage was necessary. Mere association with the wrong organization could cost a person their livelihood. It was the first nationwide attempt to institutionalize loyalty screening, and it set the precedent that political orthodoxy was now a condition of employment. These measures were not isolated. They reflected a larger cultural mood: Americans had learned to conflate unity with safety. To disagree, to dissent, to appear different in thought or association was suddenly dangerous. It was not just a matter of politics but survival. This atmosphere of fear and conformity prepared the ground for McCarthy’s meteoric rise. When he claimed that communists had infiltrated the government, he was not inventing a new fear. He was tapping into anxieties already deeply rooted in the American psyche. The Rise of McCarthy and Political Opportunism When Joseph Raymond McCarthy entered the national spotlight in 1950, he was hardly a household name. Born in 1908 on a Wisconsin farm, he rose from humble origins to study law, practice briefly, and then enter politics. During World War II he served as a Marine Corps officer in the Pacific, earning the nickname “Tailgunner Joe” for his combat flights, though even this part of his biography was later revealed to be heavily embellished. By 1946, McCarthy was elected to the U.S. Senate as a Republican and his fortunes changed in February 1950, when, at a Republican Women’s Club speech in Wheeling, West Virginia, he claimed to have a list of 205 known communists working in the State Department. The number itself shifted in his later retellings, but the headline-grabbing claim electrified audiences. At a moment when Americans were already fearful of betrayal within, McCarthy offered a simple, dramatic answer. The enemy was not just abroad, it was in Washington, and he alone was brave enough to expose it. McCarthy rarely produced verifiable evidence, but his accusations were crafted in ways that forced others to prove their innocence. This inversion of justice, where suspicion itself became condemnation, was enormously powerful in the climate of the early Cold War. Several factors amplified McCarthy’s rise: * Institutional timing: The Republican Party, out of power since the 1930s, was hungry for a wedge issue against Democrats. McCarthy’s accusations allowed them to portray Truman’s administration as weak and compromised. * Media dynamics: Newspapers and, increasingly, television carried McCarthy’s dramatic charges into living rooms across America. For journalists chasing headlines, McCarthy’s bombast was irresistible. * Bureaucratic allies: J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI shared McCarthy’s zeal for rooting out communists, and though Hoover disliked McCarthy personally, the FBI’s surveillance programs lent credibility to the atmosphere of suspicion. By the early 1950s, McCarthy had turned his Senate committee into a stage for televised interrogations. Careers were destroyed, reputations ruined, and institutions, from the State Department to the Army, were paralyzed by fear of his investigations. McCarthy had no grand strategy, but he wielded fear like a weapon, and in an America unsettled by global shifts, fear proved a potent political currency. The Machinery of Fear McCarthy may have provided the spark, but the firestorm of the early 1950s was fueled by forces much larger than a single senator. Fear of communism seeped into the very fabric of American institutions, political, cultural, and social, creating an environment where liberty was curtailed not by a dictator’s decree but through countless small acts of compliance, intimidation, and silence. What emerged was not an authoritarian state imposed from above but a self-reinforcing culture of suspicion, in which ordinary citizens and powerful institutions alike learned to police thought as well as behavior. One of the strongest tools was the loyalty oath. Following President Truman’s Federal Employee Loyalty Program of 1947, thousands of government workers were required to affirm that they had no ties to “subversive organizations.” The practice soon spread. State governments, universities, and even local school boards adopted their own loyalty requirements. The University of California became infamous for demanding that its faculty swear an oath renouncing communism. Professors who refused, not because they were communists, but because they objected to political tests as a matter of conscience, were dismissed. Freedom of thought itself was transformed into a liability; to question the oath was to invite suspicion. The entertainment industry became another frontline in the battle for ideological conformity. The House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) staged s

36 min
5 SEPT.

Elon’s $1 Trillion Ask

Tesla’s second quarter of 2025 was brutal: deliveries fell 13.5% year-on-year, revenue contracted 12%, and operating margins compressed to mid-single digits. Yet, in the middle of this slump, the board is asking shareholders to approve the largest CEO pay package in corporate history—potentially worth one trillion dollars. It is a staggering juxtaposition: shrinking fundamentals on one side, an astronomical ask on the other. At such a moment, investors must ask the unvarnished question—does this serve Tesla, or does it serve Elon Musk? The Trillion Dollar Ask The board’s proposed package would hand Musk up to 12% additional equity in Tesla, contingent on crossing an Everest of targets: a market capitalization of $8.5–8.6 trillion by the mid-2030s, annual production of 20 million vehicles, deployment of fleets of autonomous robotaxis, humanoid robot commercialization, and a soaring $400 billion EBITDA. To put this in perspective, Tesla today is worth roughly $1 trillion; the board is effectively betting on an eight-fold expansion—larger than the combined current market values of Apple, Microsoft, and Amazon. The ambition borders on fantastical. Proponents defend the package as “pay for outperformance.” But the numbers tell a sobering story: Tesla’s Q2 2025 deliveries dropped 13.5% YoY, revenues contracted by 12%, and operating margins slipped from double-digit highs to the mid-single digits. This is not outperformance; it is retrenchment. Against that backdrop, the ask for a trillion-dollar package looks less like incentive alignment and more like a test of how far the cult of the visionary CEO can stretch shareholder patience. Visionary Founder Culture Elon Musk is not just Tesla’s CEO; he is Silicon Valley’s most flamboyant expression of the “visionary founder” archetype. For decades, American business culture—especially in Silicon Valley—has celebrated entrepreneurs as heroic saviors. Steve Jobs was canonized as the creative genius, Jeff Bezos as the relentless optimizer, Mark Zuckerberg as the digital architect. Each cultivated the persona of the irreplaceable leader whose charisma justified extraordinary deference from boards and investors. Musk has perfected this archetype, presenting himself simultaneously as engineer, futurist, and prophet. This culture was reinforced by the venture capital system. Since the 1990s, VCs have increasingly granted founders dual-class shares and “super-voting rights”, allowing them to retain control far beyond their equity stakes. The rationale was that protecting “visionaries” from short-term shareholder pressure would unleash long-term innovation. But in practice, it entrenched founders and weakened governance. WeWork’s Adam Neumann, Uber’s Travis Kalanick, and Meta’s Zuckerberg all illustrate how unchecked founder control can corrode oversight. Musk fits neatly into this pattern—except that Tesla’s board has taken the logic to its extreme by proposing the largest compensation package in corporate history. The academic record underscores the risks. Bebchuk and Fried argue that charismatic leaders capture boards, extracting “pay without performance.” Shiller warns that visionary narratives sustain bubbles untethered to fundamentals. Khurana describes the irrational board search for “corporate saviors.”³ Hambrick and Quigley quantify the reality: CEOs, even the most influential, explain only 15–30% of firm performance variance.⁴ And Meindl famously called this the “romance of leadership,” a collective over-attribution of outcomes to the CEO. Perhaps the most telling counterexample is Apple. When Steve Jobs passed away in 2011, many predicted the company could not thrive without him. Yet under Tim Cook, Apple became the world’s most valuable company, proving that visionary founders are not irreplaceable and that strong institutions can outlast charismatic individuals. Tesla’s board, in contrast, seems to be betting the company’s fate entirely on Musk, perpetuating the myth that no one else could lead—a belief that is as dangerous for governance as it is flattering to the man himself. Tesla’s proposed trillion-dollar package is a textbook case of this romance. It is less an incentive system than a cultural artifact—proof that the mythology of the visionary founder, fortified by Silicon Valley’s governance structures, can override basic fiduciary discipline. Musk is not an outlier; he is the culmination of a system that routinely rewards charisma over accountability. Personal Financial Strain Musk’s $44 billion acquisition of Twitter—now X—was a watershed moment not only for social media but also for Musk’s personal finances. To fund the deal, he layered roughly $13 billion of debt onto X’s balance sheet, with annual interest payments estimated between $1.2 and $1.5 billion. When the financing was arranged in 2022, rates were near historic lows. By 2025, after one of the steepest Federal Reserve tightening cycles in decades, servicing that debt became structurally heavier. What once looked like manageable leverage now resembles a cash-flow vice. The pressure was not theoretical. Musk liquidated tens of billions of dollars of Tesla stock in 2022 to help fund the acquisition, breaking with his long-standing insistence that he would “never sell.” His personal wealth remains enormous on paper—north of $200 billion—but the overwhelming bulk is illiquid equity. In practice, he is far more cash-constrained than the headline numbers suggest. Tesla’s board tacitly acknowledged this by imposing a cap: Musk may borrow no more than $3.5 billion, or 25% of pledged collateral, against his shares. It was a governance safeguard, but also a signal of concern about his reliance on Tesla stock for liquidity. For nearly two years, banks were saddled with the “hung” X debt, unable to offload it to investors without taking steep losses. Only in early 2025, under improved market conditions, did they manage to sell down most of the exposure. By then, however, the financial strain had already been revealed: Musk is a CEO managing not only Tesla’s challenges but also the obligations of a leveraged, loss-making social media platform. In this light, the request for a trillion-dollar Tesla package begins to look less like long-term alignment and more like personal liquidity engineering disguised as incentive compensation. Musk’s financial commitments do not end with Tesla or X. He presides over a constellation of ventures, many of which are voracious consumers of capital. Some, like Starship at SpaceX, absorb billions each year in R&D and test launches without near-term revenue to offset the burn. Others, like Tesla’s robotaxi program and its humanoid robotics ambitions, demand sustained investment in AI, chips, and manufacturing capacity, with uncertain timelines to monetisation. His AI startup, xAI, has raised external funding but remains compute-hungry and unproven. Neuralink and The Boring Company are likewise early-stage bets whose commercial viability is still speculative. There are exceptions. Starlink, SpaceX’s satellite internet arm, has become a reliable cash generator, with millions of subscribers and growing defense contracts. But even here, the revenues are dwarfed by the costs of Starship development, which is meant to carry Starlink’s next-generation satellites. In other words, the positive cash flow of one project is quickly consumed by the burn rate of another. The mosaic is unmistakable: Musk leads a liquidity-hungry empire where projects cycle between visionary announcements and heavy spending, often without commensurate near-term returns. Against this backdrop, a new trillion-dollar Tesla equity package looks less like a neutral incentive design and more like a convenient mechanism to shore up the balance of a man stretched across too many fronts. Tesla’s 2008 Near Collapse The mythology of Elon Musk as the indomitable risk-taker has its roots in 2008, a year he has often called the worst of his life. Both Tesla and SpaceX were running out of cash. Tesla’s early Roadster program was plagued by delays and cost overruns; SpaceX had suffered three failed rocket launches in a row. Musk had already poured in much of his personal fortune from the PayPal sale. By December, he was down to his last reserves. In a now-famous episode, Musk wired his final $20 million into Tesla just days before Christmas, uncertain whether he would make payroll. On Christmas Eve, SpaceX finally achieved a successful launch, unlocking a crucial NASA contract. Simultaneously, Tesla secured a last-minute round of financing. For a brief moment, both companies avoided bankruptcy by the narrowest of margins. The story is often retold as proof of Musk’s courage and resilience. Yet it also illustrates the other side of his leadership: a willingness to steer companies to the very edge of insolvency, gambling that last-minute salvation will arrive. It is this history that investors should keep in mind when assessing today’s trillion-dollar package request. For Musk, financial brinkmanship is not an exception but part of the operating model. Governmental Scaffolding The narrative of Elon Musk as a purely market-driven entrepreneur overlooks a crucial fact: Tesla’s ascent has been built on an intricate lattice of government support. In 2010, the company received a $465 million loan from the Department of Energy’s ATVM program. Musk often emphasizes that Tesla repaid the loan early, but what mattered most was timing: the loan arrived when private capital was scarce, and Tesla’s future was still highly uncertain. Without it, the company might never have reached scale. Beyond loans, Tesla’s profitability for much of the 2010s was sustained by regulatory credits—emissions allowances that Tesla sold to competitors, generating billions in revenue. These credits, effectively a policy subsidy, often

8 min
1 SEPT.

Arches Without Keystones

What if I told you that Southeast Asia — one of the fastest-growing regions in the world — rests on fragile arches without keystones? Indonesia, the demographic engine. Thailand, the geographic pivot. Two nations that hold up ASEAN. But here’s the paradox: their democracies look complete — parliaments, elections, constitutions — and yet legitimacy is unfinished. Power is split between the people’s vote and unelected guardians. That’s why something as small as a housing allowance in Jakarta or a leaked phone call in Bangkok can trigger national crises. The system is fragile because the keystone is missing. In my latest report, Southeast Asia’s Fault Lines: The Crisis of Incomplete Transformation, I investigate why this matters not just for these countries, but for the stability of the entire region. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unsubject.substack.com/subscribe

11 min
18 JUIN

The Architectures of Control

There are concepts that, while seemingly abstract, possess a profound and often insidious power to shape our lives, our societies, and the very future of human liberty: Totalitarianism, Authoritarianism, and Extremism. These are not mere political labels; they are pathologies of power, each representing a regression from the nuanced, individual-centric flourishing that defines true civilization. Let us begin with Extremism. What is it, at its core? It is, as I see it, the inability to tolerate difference. It is the fervent, often zealous, conviction that there is but one voice, one truth, one correct path to be permitted, and all others must be silenced or eradicated. Consider the passionate advocate, utterly convinced of their singular truth. While passion can fuel progress, when it metastasizes into the belief that their truth is the only truth, and that all deviation is heresy, then we witness the birth of extremism. I am a skeptic. I believe truth exists, but it does not reside solely within the domain of secular human beings, nor can any single individual or group claim its exclusive dominion. A philosophical inquiry into epistemology reveals a myriad of pathways to understanding. To assume one's own beliefs are universally and perpetually true is a dangerous hubris. Extremism, in this light, is the most perilous form of collectivism, It is a mindset that cannot abide the tiniest divergence, seeking either to coerce assimilation or to utterly annihilate dissent. From extremism, we turn to authoritarianism and totalitarianism, systems that embody this collective impulse at the governmental level. Totalitarianism, in its most chilling form, seeks total control. It is a system of governance that infiltrates every conceivable aspect of human existence – what we wear, what we do, what we see, what we hear. It is not merely a restriction of freedom, but an absolute subjugation of the individual to the state, a relentless flattening of human experience into a singular, state-sanctioned mold. Every private corner of life, every personal choice, becomes a matter of public decree, enforced by the pervasive hand of the ruling power. Authoritarianism, while perhaps less all-encompassing, is no less dangerous in its implications. It usurps the domain of right versus wrong, wresting it from the individual and placing it in the hands of those in positions of power. Herein lies a critical distinction: the difference between truth and falsehood, and right and wrong. My preference for a certain food, your aesthetic choice – these are matters of individual taste, not universal judgment. Yet, under an authoritarian regime, such personal preferences can be elevated to matters of "right" or "wrong," stripping away individual autonomy and fostering a culture of compliance. The slippery slope here is terrifyingly steep. When matters of personal choice become matters of right and wrong, they can then be transmuted into matters of truth itself. Those holding differing beliefs, those practicing alternative ways of life, are then deemed "untrue," "unhuman." This dehumanization is the fertile ground from which the most horrific atrocities spring, fundamentally altering how we perceive and treat our fellow human beings. The mechanics of control, particularly in politics, are deceptively simple: how a small cohort can manipulate a vast populace into compliance, even into serving their narrow interests. Often, it's not brute force alone. It is the cultivation of fear, the narrative that the "weak" must seek protection from a "strongman" or an omnipotent state. Yet, the stark reality is often the inverse: the collective, driven by fear and dependency, becomes the unwitting bulwark for the very "strongmen" who exploit their anxieties. Consider the role of Ideology and Identity. These are intimately intertwined. What we believe often defines who we are. Contemporary politics is rife with "identity politics," just as the 19th century saw "class struggle." These are attempts to categorize, to group individuals based on shared characteristics or economic status, and then, crucially, to antagonize these groups against one another. It becomes a simplistic "we versus them" narrative, obliterating the rich tapestry of individual identity. But each of us is more than a member of a single group. We are, at once, independent individuals and members of myriad associations: family, profession, hobbies, language, shared geography. The critical question for a free society is where we draw the boundary between our individuality and the rest of the world. It is not an antagonistic relationship; it is not "I against the world." Rather, it is "I, existing as a complete individual, also belonging to diverse groups that may cooperate or conflict." The danger arises when totalitarian and authoritarian regimes, and extremist organizations, forbid this multiplicity of identity, seeking to flatten complexity into a simple, fanatical "we versus them." So, how do we safeguard against such insidious forces? The answer lies not merely in the ritual of elections, though they serve the vital purpose of ensuring no one clings to power indefinitely. Democracy is far more profound than mere electoral politics. It is, first and foremost, about the respect for differences. We must accept that in a free and open society, disagreement is not merely inevitable, but essential. The challenge lies in where we draw the boundaries of this disagreement. If a matter does not involve us, if it does not infringe upon our fundamental rights, it is simply not our business to dictate the choices of others. This is the essence of subsidiarity: that power and decision-making should reside at the level closest to the individual, wherever possible and necessary. Beyond elections and subsidiarity, the true bastions of a democratic society are: Firstly, free speech absolutism. There will always be speech we deem hateful or foolish. But once we open the Pandora's Box of censorship, we embark upon a perilous slippery slope, where more and more ideas become forbidden, and the very marketplace of thought is choked. We must tolerate speech we disagree with, for the alternative is intellectual tyranny. Secondly, the free market. Believe it or not, the financial market, in all its chaotic glory, is often the most potent check on governmental overreach. Governments, particularly modern ones, are deeply dependent on financial markets for public financing. Without this lifeblood, ruling coalitions falter, and even the most tyrannical aspirations cannot be sustained. A free market, therefore, is not merely a means to accumulate wealth, but a crucial bulwark against unchecked state power. Thirdly, and intrinsically linked, is an independent judiciary. A functioning free market, built on competition and cooperation, demands an impartial arbiter of disputes, particularly commercial ones. A judiciary free from political interference is the very avatar of fairness and predictability, allowing the complex dance of commerce and innovation to flourish. Finally, and perhaps most profoundly, lies the cultivation of civil society. This is not a government program or a political party; it is a state of mind. It is when individuals, unbidden and uncoerced, ask themselves: "What can I do? What can we, voluntarily, do to make the world a better place?" It is a psychological state of self-belief, a rejection of the culture of dependency that leads societies to become subservient to the state. We must believe in ourselves, in our neighbors, and in the power of voluntary action to mend, to build, and to uplift. Young people today face immense anxieties, particularly in a world transformed by economic and technological shifts that displace traditional certainties. But the government is not a savior; it can, indeed, be the very source of the problem. Fear, whether among the young or reflected in the media, can easily drive us into the arms of "strongmen" – figures who are not truly strong, but rather exploit our anxieties to fortify their own regimes. True civilization is built on individuals who believe in themselves, who resist the psychological urge to surrender their autonomy to external powers. It is a continuous act of self-reliance, of voluntary engagement, and of a steadfast commitment to the values of liberty, skepticism, and the tolerance of difference. Let us embrace these principles, for they are our most powerful defenses against the encroaching shadows of totalitarianism, authoritarianism, and extremism. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unsubject.substack.com/subscribe

10 min
15 AVR.

From Rules-Based to Rival Visions

It has been some time since the last update. The seismic shifts following the events of early 2020 have left many feeling adrift. Subsequently, the trade war destabilized markets. The push for deglobalization is a worrying retreat from the principles of comparative advantage and global cooperation that have historically driven prosperity. Yet, from a historical and free-market perspective, perhaps we should have anticipated some of this. Social discontent is perennial. The siren call to employ governmental coercion never truly fades. These impulses intensify during periods of rapid technological and societal change, as anxieties about individual circumstances rise. The working class often blames globalization for job losses, failing to recognize that these very forces of free trade have expanded access to a higher standard of living. Similarly, the fear of technological unemployment, while understandable, overlooks the creation of new opportunities. This climate of uncertainty bears a striking resemblance to the populist movements of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, where similar anxieties fueled demands for protectionist policies and increased state control, at the expense of peace and liberty. The transition from the fractured and belligerent nationalism of the early 20th century to the rules-based system of the post-World War II era resulted from deliberate efforts to build international institutions – such as the United Nations, the Bretton Woods system, and later the World Trade Organization. In many ways, the past seventy-odd years have represented a triumph of core liberal ideals on a global scale: the emphasis on free trade, peaceful resolution of disputes, and the rule of law instead of the law of the jungle. In the optimistic aftermath of the Cold War during the 1990s, a sense of finality, an "end of history," permeated intellectual discourse, with the triumph of liberal democracy seemingly assured. Nevertheless, this perspective significantly downplayed the enduring and often insurmountable role of geopolitics in shaping the destinies of nations. The underlying dynamics of power, competition, and national interest were never fully extinguished by ideological victory alone. Rules-based systems, for all their merits, remain inherently fragile. Their efficacy hinges on the adherence of even the most powerful nations to the core tenets of classical liberalism, particularly the safeguarding of individual liberty. When these foundational principles are compromised by leading states – as witnessed, for example, when the American government itself infringes upon personal freedoms – the very legitimacy and stability of the international order are undermined. The aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks marked a significant turning point. The perceived exigencies of national security led the United States to increasingly curtail personal liberties in ways that would have been unthinkable just a decade prior. Surveillance programs expanded, due process was questioned, and the very definition of individual freedom seemed to contract under the weight of fear. The Global Financial Crisis of 2008 further eroded faith in the principles of free markets and limited government intervention. Government bailouts across the developed world signaled a decisive shift towards greater state involvement in the economy. This interventionist turn further weakened the ideological consistency of the prevailing international order. This weakening of the ideological foundations of the liberal international order created a vacuum, which China, with its rapidly growing economic and geopolitical influence, has been increasingly eager to fill. Rather than adhering to the set of broadly free-market economic policies championed by the USA and international financial institutions for decades (often termed the "Washington Consensus"), China has promoted an alternative vision often termed the "Beijing Consensus." The Beijing Consensus, while not always explicitly defined, generally emphasizes state-led economic development, authoritarian political control, and a focus on national sovereignty and non-interference in the internal affairs of other nations. China’s growing economic power, fueled by its blend of state capitalism and export-oriented growth, has allowed it to project its influence and forge partnerships with nations. As an authoritarian regime, the Chinese Communist Party’s motivations extend beyond mere economic development; a significant geopolitical agenda is at play. The Belt and Road Initiative, in part, aims to cultivate a bloc of nations that are more aligned with China’s authoritarian model of governance, fostering a geopolitical sphere of influence composed of similarly structured regimes. From this perspective, the optimism surrounding the end of the Cold War in the 1990s, with its perceived triumph of liberalism, may have been premature. While the Soviet Union collapsed, the underlying currents of geopolitical tension never truly vanished. As great power competition intensifies and different ideological blocs solidify, nations may increasingly turn inward, emphasizing national identity and security in response to perceived external pressures and the shifting balance of power. The COVID-19 crisis, erupting in early 2020, served as another powerful accelerant to the trends we've been discussing. The pandemic and the subsequent global response further fueled discontent amongst populations worldwide and significantly eroded trust in established institutions, both domestic and international. When people feel that traditional authorities – whether political, scientific, or economic – have failed them, they become more susceptible to simplistic narratives and charismatic leaders promising radical change. This erosion of trust in institutions created a fertile ground for populist sentiments to take root and flourish. As Eric Hoffer observed in The True Believer, "Mass movements can rise and spread without belief in a God, but never without belief in a devil." Subsequent waves of crises since the 9/11 terrorist attacks have generated widespread anxiety and a sense of societal breakdown, inadvertently creating fertile ground for the identification of such "devils." Whether it was a virus, specific social groups, or perceived institutional failures, these crises provided readily available targets for blame and fueled the kind of collective animosity that often underpins populist movements. Another, perhaps less conventionally discussed, episode during the COVID-19 crisis that illuminated the rising tide of populist sentiment and the erosion of trust in established financial institutions was the meme-stock frenzy, exemplified by the dramatic GameStop saga. Fueled by hype and a populist call to arms orchestrated by Reddit users on platforms like r/WallStreetBets, this movement saw a surge of individual investors banding together to challenge institutional investors – specifically hedge funds that had bet against these companies. The narrative that emerged was one of a David-versus-Goliath battle: ordinary retail investors uniting to defeat the perceived "corrupt elite" of Wall Street. This resonated deeply with a population already feeling disenfranchised and distrustful of traditional financial systems in the wake of the 2008 crisis and the economic uncertainties of the pandemic. The call to "arm" oneself with stock purchases to inflict financial pain on institutional investors became a form of populist rebellion, a way for the "common person" to strike back against a system they felt was rigged against them. As we consider the trajectory of these populist movements, Eric Hoffer's framework in The True Believer offers further insight: "A movement is pioneered by men of words, materialized by fanatics and consolidated by men of action." The intense fervor of populist movements, often driven by rhetoric, will eventually subside as the limitations of simplistic solutions become apparent and the "men of words" exhaust themselves. However, this does not mean the end to societal discontent. Just as one wave recedes, another is brewing. History rarely progresses in a straight line. It is a tapestry woven with conflicting views and values, marked by periods of both advancement and regression. New forms and flavors of populism, fueled by different grievances, will emerge. It is not the absence of conflict, nor the guarantee of immediate consensus, that defines a resilient society. But rather its ability for diverse perspectives to contend, to be scrutinized, and to evolve through free exchange remains the most reliable compass. As old certainties crumble and new anxieties emerge, the seeds of progress, however unconventional or challenging in their inception, will take root and shape the world to come, emerging from the cacophony of competing voices. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unsubject.substack.com/subscribe

10 min
15 AVR.

A Free Market Lens on Canada

As a free marketeer, I typically do not publicly support candidates for political office. The following interview with the leader of the People's Party of Canada, Maxime Bernier, was recorded in March. I also want to be transparent and disclose that my friend Mimi Lee is running for the Markham-Thornhill seat in Ontario, and Mr. Bernier and I also have mutual friends within libertarian and classical liberal circles. Despite these connections, the focus of this interview remains on exploring current Canadian economic and social issues from a non-mainstream liberal perspective. * Productivity and Economic Growth: * Bernier argues Canada's productivity has significantly slowed due to excessive government regulation, high taxes, and business subsidies. * He proposes deregulation, lower business taxes (a 15% flat tax), eliminating capital gains tax, and ending business subsidies to stimulate investment and productivity. * He also argues that mass immigration has lowered GDP per capita, creating an illusion of growth while making individuals poorer. * He suggests a pause on immigration to force businesses to reinvest in automation, and therefore increase productivity.1 * Government Spending and Deficit: * Bernier criticizes the combined federal, provincial, and municipal deficits, advocating for a balanced budget within a year. * He proposes cutting foreign aid and withdrawing from the Paris Agreement and UN migration compact.2 * Trade and International Relations: * He advocates for free trade, including eliminating interprovincial trade barriers and renegotiating the North American Free Trade Agreement to include the removal of supply management cartels in dairy, poultry, and eggs. * He supports an open, not isolationist, Canada. * He expresses concern about Chinese and Indian interference in Canadian politics and advocates for stricter controls on foreign investment, particularly from China, in natural resources. * Immigration: * Bernier proposes a temporary pause on immigration to address housing and healthcare crises.3 * He advocates for a streamlined immigration process with face-to-face interviews and a focus on immigrants who share Western civilization values. * He is against the current system where people use student visas or temporary work permits as back door ways to become permanent residents. * People's Party of Canada: * Bernier describes the party as a populist, free-market party aiming to increase its vote share. * He emphasizes the party's commitment to individual freedom, personal responsibility, respect, and fairness. * He claims that he is principled, and that his party does not focus on polls.4 This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unsubject.substack.com/subscribe

22 min
07/12/2024

Why Jimmy Remains Unbroken

A few days ago, I attended an event where someone asked, "Why doesn’t the CCP just ‘take care’ of Jimmy Lai? Wouldn't that be the simplest solution?" It was the launch of Mark Clifford’s new book, The Troublemaker. I was there as an audience to show support. During the discussion, the topic of how authoritarian regimes deal with dissidents came up. Everyone understood the implications of "take care" in this context. After the book launch, I stayed behind with a few acquaintances to discuss the issue further. My take is this: "A living, breathing Jimmy Lai is far more useful to the CCP." Why is that? The CCP's goal is to destroy the symbol of Jimmy Lai. What does Jimmy Lai represent? He embodies a certain kind of Hongkonger — someone who fled Communist China’s oppression, found freedom and opportunity in Hong Kong, and ultimately dedicated himself to defending the city’s freedom and universal values. Back in the 1950s and 60s, there were many people like him in Hong Kong — people who chose to become Hongkongers. Life in Hong Kong wasn’t easy back then, but after decades of hard work, the city became the place we all grew to know and love. If the CCP were to act "without thinking" and permanently eliminate Jimmy Lai, the only message they'd be sending to the world is: "So what?" But the bigger problem for them is that such an act would immortalize him. He would be elevated from a mortal being to a spiritual figure — a "Hong Kong version of Martin Luther King" — remembered and revered for generations. Sure, some might argue that in a decade or so, people will forget who Jimmy was. But in today’s world, thanks to the information revolution, the half-life of collective memory has grown much longer. People live longer too, and many are dedicated to preserving these histories. It’s been five years since 2019, and yet, many of the events of that year remain vivid in people's memories. Ten, twenty, or even fifty years from now, Hong Kong’s history will still not be forgotten. That’s why the CCP’s strategy is not to simply erase people. CCP wants to rewrite history. And to rewrite history, you must first change the people within it. That means forcing them to publicly confess, discrediting them, and obliterating their dignity and reputation. Once that’s achieved, these people lose all symbolic value. By then, whether or not they remain alive becomes irrelevant. That’s why, in the Apple Daily case, the authorities pressured other employees to become witnesses against Jimmy Lai. The goal was to make it appear as though even his own people had betrayed him. The CCP's ultimate goal is for Jimmy Lai to surrender and confess. But they have gravely underestimated him. Frankly, I understand why our former colleagues might seek leniency through compromise. But they’re being naive. After they testify, they will have exhausted their usefulness to the CCP. They will have no bargaining power left. I even suspect that because Jimmy Lai remains resilient, he is inadvertently protecting his former colleagues. The CCP might still see value in using them to push the narrative further — telling even more outlandish lies — just to reinforce the image of Jimmy Lai as a villain. In doing so, these witnesses maintain some utility to the regime. From a game theory perspective, Jimmy’s best option is to stand firm. It’s not just a moral decision or an act of self-loyalty — it’s also the optimal choice for everyone involved. Meanwhile, the CCP will continue to use every tactic they can think of to crush Jimmy Lai as a person and reshape the world's perception of him. In chess, this scenario is known as a stalemate. When your opponent assumes you’ve already lost, but you deny them the ability to win, you create a stalemate. I’m sharing this idea because I believe CCP needs to recognize this for what it is: a stalemate. Only then will there be a chance for it to end. At Mark Clifford’s book launch, he made a remark that resonated deeply with me. He said he hadn’t had the chance to see Jimmy Lai in the past four years. Yet, from his court appearances, it’s clear that his years of ascetic living had only made him stronger and more faithful to himself. Jimmy’s religious faith has given him wisdom. He was baptized after the 1997 handover, as he felt that one day he would need the support of faith to endure what was to come. For the record, I am not a Christian. Nor am I an atheist. I identify as an agnostic. I believe that humanity will never be able to definitively prove or disprove the existence of God. From a philosophical and logical standpoint, such questions are inherently unanswerable. But I do understand the power of beliefs — whether it’s religious faith or secular belief. Faith has meaning for individuals and society alike. Our personal sense of morality is often rooted in these beliefs. Some people claim to believe in "nothing," but in truth, they simply aren’t aware of what they believe in. There are several verses from the Bible that, despite my secular disposition, I find profoundly powerful: "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." (Luke 23:34) "Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven." (Luke 6:37) These words probably come to Jimmy’s mind when he thinks of our former colleagues who testified against him. Of course, he must challenge their lies directly, but he can still focus his response on the claims rather than the people. The judges and prosecutors are both attempting to prove that Jimmy "incited hatred." Jimmy’s response, however, is to speak about his belief in freedom and his love for Hong Kong. Everything he does is born from faith and gratitude. There is no hatred in him — not for the regime, not for the judges, and not for his former colleagues who testified falsely against him. I also want to clarify something: Jimmy Lai never once asked that anyone "resist to the end." I, for one, am an example of someone who walked away, and he never blamed me for it. I remember the first time I resigned in 2010 to move back to the U.S. Back then, Hong Kong was still relatively safe. He told me, "Simon, your future is in Hong Kong. It would be a wrong move for you to leave." But when I left for good in 2020, he fully supported my decision. He didn’t tell me what to do or how to live my life. "I tell you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body and after that can do no more. But I will show you whom you should fear: Fear Him who, after your body has been killed, has authority to throw you into hell. Yes, I tell you, fear Him." (Luke 12:4-5) For those with religious faith, especially Christians, this passage has deeper meaning — such as who truly holds "authority" and what "hell" represents. But as an ordinary layperson, I don’t know what happens after we die. I don’t know if there’s a soul or what form it might take. I can only interpret the passage at face value. To me, the message is this: Ideas are bulletproof. Beliefs cannot be destroyed by bullets. If you betray your beliefs, you surrender even the few inches of freedom that exist between your two ears. Allow me to conclude with the words of another "worldly" philosopher, Marcus Aurelius: "The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury." Today is Jimmy’s birthday, and here’s my message for him: Dear Jimmy, I wish you peace. We will meet again — not in heaven, but in the U.K. or the U.S. When that day comes, we’ll go out for a good meal together. The Troublemaker: How Jimmy Lai Became a Billionaire, Hong Kong's Greatest Dissident, and China's Most Feared Critic Alternatively, here’s the link to kindle version of the book and the audio book. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit unsubject.substack.com/subscribe

8 min

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In an age of noise and propaganda, Unsubject is a map for navigating power, money, and meaning. Host Simon Lee—writer, podcaster, and member of Hong Kong’s global diaspora—dissects economics, policy, and technology with a contrarian edge. Each episode equips you with clarity, context, and survival strategies for a world in flux. unsubject.substack.com

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Simon Lee
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2023 - 2025
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29
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