La tecnologia può stabilire come un’arma raggiunge il bersaglio, mentre spetta all’umanità decidere se quel bersaglio debba essere colpito. La domanda che si cela dietro a tutto ciò è chi, concretamente, eserciti quell’umanità, con quali strumenti di conoscenza e dentro quali istituzioni.
Che cosa ne è dell’umanità quando la tecnologia diventa capace di riconoscere, classificare, seguire e infine uccidere esseri umani senza che chi colpisce li abbia mai visti? Se lo è chiesto l’amico Mohammad Reza Dehshiri e la sua risposta ha una formula efficace. Il pericolo, scrive, non è l’intelligenza artificiale ma l’inumanità artificiale, cioè la possibilità che le macchine diventino più accurate proprio mentre gli uomini smettono di sentirsi responsabili di ciò che quelle macchine fanno in loro nome.
Con questo articolo apro una serie che parte dalla diagnosi di Dehshiri e prova a spingersi oltre. Se il problema è l’inumanità artificiale, la risposta non può consistere in un’IA «più etica», come se l’etica fosse un modulo da installare a valle di un sistema già progettato. Bisogna recuperare una categoria che il lessico tecnologico ha reso quasi impronunciabile: l’intelligenza umana, intesa non come un residuo da proteggere nelle pieghe dell’automazione, ma come una forma di conoscenza con prerogative proprie, che nessun aumento della potenza di calcolo può surrogare.
La chiamerò Human Intelligence, e l’ambiguità è voluta. Nel gergo dei servizi di informazione, HUMINT designa la più antica delle discipline informative: quella che passa per le persone, le fonti, le lingue, la frequentazione paziente dei luoghi. Nel lessico filosofico l’espressione indica la facoltà di comprendere. La tesi di questo primo contributo è che i due significati oggi convergono, e che la loro convergenza ha una portata geopolitica che va ben oltre il dibattito sull’etica delle armi.
Possiamo descrivere la catena operativa della guerra contemporanea in sette passaggi: rilevare, identificare, classificare, predire, ordinare per priorità, designare, colpire. Ogni anello può essere tecnicamente raffinato senza che la sequenza, presa nel suo insieme, lo sia sul piano morale. Il fenomeno che ne risulta viene chiamato «datificazione della vita umana»: l’individuo ridotto a un’identità, a una posizione, a uno schema di comportamento, a un punteggio di minaccia.
Non si tratta di un’astrazione. Nell’aprile 2024 un’inchiesta di Yuval Abraham per +972 Magazine e Local Call ha descritto Lavender, un sistema impiegato dalle forze armate israeliane a Gaza per attribuire a decine di migliaia di persone una probabilità di affiliazione ai gruppi armati. Secondo le fonti interne citate dall’inchiesta, la verifica umana di ciascun nominativo si riduceva spesso a una ventina di secondi, il tempo necessario per accertare che il bersaglio fosse di sesso maschile. Le forze armate israeliane hanno contestato questa ricostruzione e hanno descritto Lavender come una banca dati di supporto agli analisti. Anche accettando la versione ufficiale, però, il nodo resta intatto: un operatore umano era presente, e la sua presenza non bastava a trasformare la raccomandazione del sistema in un giudizio.
La psicologia cognitiva ha un nome per questo fenomeno, automation bias: la tendenza di chi lavora con un sistema automatizzato a trattarne le indicazioni come sostituto della propria verifica, e a non cercare le informazioni che potrebbero smentirle. Nel 1976 Joseph Weizenbaum, che aveva costruito uno dei primi programmi conversazionali della storia, distingueva già tra la capacità di calcolare e quella di giudicare, e sosteneva che vi sono compiti che non andrebbero affidati a un calcolatore anche se il calcolatore fosse in grado di svolgerli. Mezzo secolo dopo la distinzione è diventata più urgente. Il calcolo lavora su ciò che è già stato tradotto in dato. Il giudizio deve decidere se quella traduzione è stata fedele.
Dehshiri fissa il punto con quattro distinzioni: la precisione tecnica non è precisione etica, l’accuratezza non è giustizia, l’automazione non è responsabilità, la superiorità tecnologica non è superiorità morale. Ne aggiungerei una quinta, di ordine epistemico, da cui dipendono le altre: la correlazione non è comprensione. Un sistema di apprendimento automatico riconosce regolarità statistiche in un insieme di dati. Non sa che cosa sia una scuola, perché non sa che cosa sia un bambino, e non sa nemmeno di non saperlo.
L’iraniano prende un caso studio interessante: Il 28 febbraio 2026, nelle prime ore della guerra, la scuola elementare Shajareh Tayyebeh di Minab, nella provincia di Hormozgan, fu colpita più volte durante l’orario di lezione. Le cifre fornite dalle autorità iraniane oscillano tra 150 e 175 morti, in grande maggioranza bambine, con decine di insegnanti e alcuni genitori; il procuratore della contea ha indicato un bilancio definitivo di 156 vittime. Washington non ha mai riconosciuto direttamente la propria responsabilità né pubblicato le conclusioni dell’indagine del Pentagono. Amnesty International ha parlato, nella migliore delle ipotesi, di un grave fallimento dell’intelligence.
C’è un dettaglio, emerso dalle immagini satellitari, che sposta l’analisi dal piano morale a quello conoscitivo. Secondo i media occidentali, la scuola sorgeva accanto a una base navale dei Guardiani della Rivoluzione e in passato ne aveva fatto parte; tra le spiegazioni circolate negli ambienti statunitensi c’è quella di dati di puntamento non aggiornati. Se l’ipotesi venisse confermata, Minab non sarebbe il caso di una macchina che sbaglia, ma di un archivio che ha smesso di corrispondere alla realtà. L’edificio era cambiato. Il dato no.
Nessun algoritmo di classificazione, per quanto sofisticato, può accorgersi che un vecchio fabbricato militare è diventato una scuola se nessuno ha registrato il cambiamento. Lo sapeva chiunque vivesse a Minab: i genitori che ogni mattina accompagnavano le figlie, il conducente dello scuolabus, gli insegnanti. È esattamente il tipo di sapere che la HUMINT raccoglie e che la guerra a distanza tende a considerare superfluo, perché lento, costoso, difficile da scalare. Allo stato delle fonti pubbliche, la responsabilità statunitense appare altamente probabile, mentre la dinamica resta indeterminata e la confidenza su questo punto è bassa: errore della banca dati, errore di classificazione, oppure accettazione consapevole del rischio. Le tre ipotesi, però, convergono sulla stessa domanda. Chi, prima del lancio, ha verificato se in quell’edificio ci fossero persone?
Oltre il “human-in-the-loop”
Il dibattito internazionale si è a lungo accontentato del principio del human-in-the-loop, l’essere umano inserito nel circuito decisionale.
La formula è insufficiente: un uomo può essere presente nel circuito e limitarsi a ratificare la raccomandazione dell’algoritmo. Propone di sostituirla con un principio più esigente, che chiama humanity-in-command: la capacità effettiva di mettere in discussione, respingere, scavalcare e arrestare il processo automatizzato.
La storia della Guerra fredda offre due esempi che chiariscono che cosa significhi in concreto. Il 26 settembre 1983 il sistema sovietico di allerta precoce Oko segnalò il lancio di cinque missili balistici dagli Stati Uniti. L’ufficiale di turno, Stanislav Petrov, classificò l’allarme come un errore e non lo trasmise come attacco in corso, ragionando che un primo colpo americano non sarebbe mai consistito in cinque missili soltanto. Aveva ragione: il satellite aveva scambiato per lanci i riflessi del sole sulle nubi. Ventuno anni prima, il 27 ottobre 1962, nelle acque dei Caraibi, il sottomarino sovietico B-59, isolato e bersagliato da cariche di profondità di segnalazione, fu sul punto di impiegare un siluro a testata nucleare. Il lancio richiedeva il consenso dei tre ufficiali superiori a bordo, e Vasilij Archipov lo negò.
In nessuno dei due casi l’uomo approvò una raccomandazione del sistema. La contraddisse. E non lo fece perché disponeva di più dati: i dati, anzi, erano il problema. Lo fece perché seppe porsi una domanda che nessuna procedura gli imponeva, cioè se ciò che vedeva avesse senso rispetto a tutto il resto che sapeva del mondo. Petrov conosceva la dottrina nucleare americana; Archipov conosceva la differenza tra un attacco e un’intimidazione. È questa capacità di confrontare il segnale con l’insieme, il particolare con il plausibile, che chiamo Human Intelligence. Vale la pena notare che il Dena è stato affondato da un sottomarino. Non sappiamo che cosa sia stato chiesto ai suoi ufficiali, né quali margini di valutazione avessero.
La proposta va precisata, perché il rischio è di ridurla a un appello umanistico generico. La Human Intelligence, così come la intendo, si articola su tre piani distinti, ciascuno dei quali segna un limite strutturale, e non contingente, dell’intelligenza artificiale.
Il primo piano è epistemico. La tradizione scolastica distingueva tra intellectus, l’atto con cui la mente coglie in modo immediato una verità, e ratio, il procedere discorsivo da un elemento all’altro: per Tommaso d’Aquino (Summa Theologiae, I, q. 79, a. 8) le due non sono facoltà diverse ma momenti di un unico intelletto, in cui il ragionamento parte da una comprensione e a una comprensione ritorna. I sistemi attuali di apprendimento automatico realizzano una ratio di potenza inaudita, capace di inferire, combinare, predire su scale inaccessibili alla mente umana. Manca loro il momento dell’intellectus, cioè la presa sul senso di ciò che elaborano. È una tesi filosofica e va presentata come tale, ma ha conseguenze operative precise: un sistema privo di comprensione non può sapere quando il proprio modello del mondo è diventato falso.
Il secondo piano è pratico. La prudentia, nella definizione tomista, è la retta ragione applicata all’agire, e il suo compito specifico consiste nel portare il principio universale fino al caso singolare. La macchina generalizza: il suo valore sta nel ricondurre il singolo caso a una classe. La prudenza fa l’opposto, perché deve riconoscere ciò che, in questo caso, sfugge alla classe. La guerra, che è il regno del singolare e dell’imprevisto, è il terreno in cui la differenza pesa di più. La nota vaticana Antiqua et nova del gennaio 2025 ha ripreso questa linea, insistendo sul carattere incarnato e relazionale dell’intelligenza umana e sulla sua irriducibilità a una funzione di elaborazione.
Il terzo piano è relazionale, ed è qui che il significato filosofico incontra quello dei servizi. Sherman Kent, che negli Stati Uniti del dopoguerra fondò di fatto gli studi sull’intelligence, la definiva prima di tutto come conoscenza, prima ancora che come organizzazione o attività. La HUMINT è la forma di questa conoscenza che passa attraverso l’altro come persona: chi parla la sua lingua, conosce le sue abitudini, sa leggere un quartiere, distingue una festa da un raduno. Negli ultimi tre decenni le grandi potenze hanno progressivamente spostato risorse verso le discipline tecniche, dalla raccolta di segnali all’osservazione satellitare, fino alle piattaforme di fusione dei dati. Minab mostra il prezzo di questo squilibrio.
Nulla di tutto questo implica un rifiuto della tecnologia. La Human Intelligence non si oppone all’IA come il manuale si oppone al meccanico. Ne stabilisce la gerarchia: l’algoritmo come strumento ordinato a un giudizio che non può produrre da sé. E ne ricava un principio, che Dehshiri formula e che merita di diventare criterio operativo: quanto più la tecnica allontana chi agisce dalle conseguenze del proprio atto, tanto più deve crescere la responsabilità cosciente di chi decide, non diminuire.
Geopoliticamente parlando
Fin qui la questione potrebbe sembrare di filosofia morale. Non lo è soltanto. La distribuzione della capacità di guerra algoritmica è una distribuzione di potere, e le regole che la governeranno saranno scritte, se mai lo saranno, da chi ha interesse a limitarle il meno possibile.
Lo stato del diritto internazionale lo conferma. Il gruppo di esperti governativi istituito nell’ambito della Convenzione su certe armi convenzionali discute dei sistemi d’arma autonomi letali dal 2017 senza essere approdato a uno strumento vincolante. Gli Stati Uniti hanno promosso nel novembre 2023 una dichiarazione politica sull’uso militare responsabile dell’IA, per definizione non vincolante; nel dicembre dello stesso anno l’Assemblea generale delle Nazioni Unite ha adottato la prima risoluzione dedicata a questi sistemi, mentre il Comitato internazionale della Croce Rossa chiede dal 2021 il divieto dei sistemi autonomi imprevedibili e di quelli progettati per colpire esseri umani. Nel giugno 2024, intervenendo al G7 di Borgo Egnazia, Papa Francesco aveva chiesto che nessuna macchina sia mai messa nelle condizioni di decidere della vita di una persona. Il divario tra queste posizioni e la pratica dei teatri di guerra del 2026 si misura in vittime.
C’è poi un’asimmetria più profonda. Chi controlla i dati decide chi è un bersaglio, e le vittime della guerra algoritmica si trovano in larga parte fuori dall’Occidente: a Gaza, in Iran, nel Sahel, nello Yemen. Per gli Stati che non producono le piattaforme e non ne controllano gli archivi, la Human Intelligence diventa allora una questione di sovranità. Un Paese che mantiene competenze linguistiche, conoscenza regionale, reti umane di informazione conserva un’autonomia di giudizio; un Paese che affida la propria visione del mondo a sistemi progettati altrove, spesso da imprese private, la cede insieme ai dati. In un ordine che tende al multipolarismo, questa differenza separerà gli attori che giudicano da quelli che vengono giudicati.
Ne discende una proposta concreta, che svilupperò nei prossimi contributi. Accanto al principio generale del controllo umano significativo, il diritto internazionale umanitario potrebbe codificare un obbligo specifico di verifica umana dello status civile per ogni infrastruttura fissa inserita in una lista di obiettivi, con una data di validità oltre la quale l’informazione decade e va rinnovata con fonti dirette. È una norma minima. Applicata a Minab, avrebbe imposto a qualcuno di chiedersi se quell’edificio fosse ancora ciò che l’archivio diceva.
La tecnologia può stabilire come un’arma raggiunge il bersaglio, mentre spetta all’umanità decidere se quel bersaglio debba essere colpito. La domanda che si cela dietro a tutto ciò è chi, concretamente, eserciti quell’umanità, con quali strumenti di conoscenza e dentro quali istituzioni. A Minab qualcuno avrebbe dovuto sapere che c’era una scuola. Il fatto che nessuno lo sapesse, o che nessuno lo abbia chiesto, è il punto da cui ricominciare.
Dominic Cummings is right, says Professor James Alexander: the idea that civil servants are the 'guardians of the constitution' is pernicious in the extreme. But who then should play such a lofty role?
¿Qué será de la humanidad cuando la tecnología sea capaz de reconocer, clasificar, rastrear y, en última instancia, matar a seres humanos sin que quienes ejecutan los ataques los hayan visto jamás?
El peligro, escribe, no es la inteligencia artificial, sino la inhumanidad artificial; es decir, la posibilidad de que las máquinas se vuelvan más precisas precisamente cuando los humanos dejen de sentirse responsables de lo que esas máquinas hacen en su nombre.
Con este artículo, inicio una serie que toma el análisis de Dehshiri como punto de partida e intenta llevarlo más allá. Si el problema es la «inhumanidad artificial», la respuesta no puede estar en una IA «más ética», como si la ética fuera un módulo que se instalara a posteriori en un sistema que ya ha sido diseñado.
Necesitamos recuperar una categoría que la jerga tecnológica ha vuelto casi innombrable: la inteligencia humana, entendida no como un vestigio que hay que proteger en medio de las complejidades de la automatización, sino como una forma de conocimiento con características propias y distintivas, que ningún aumento en la potencia computacional puede reemplazar.
La llamaré Inteligencia Humana, y la ambigüedad es deliberada. En la jerga de los servicios de inteligencia, HUMINT se refiere a la más antigua de las disciplinas de inteligencia: aquella que se basa en las personas, las fuentes, los idiomas y la visita paciente y frecuente a distintos lugares.
En terminología filosófica, la expresión denota la facultad de comprender. La tesis de esta primera contribución es que estos dos significados ahora convergen, y que su convergencia tiene implicaciones geopolíticas que se extienden mucho más allá del debate sobre la ética de las armas.
Podemos describir la cadena operativa de la guerra contemporánea en siete etapas: detectar, identificar, clasificar, predecir, priorizar, seleccionar el objetivo, atacar.
Cada eslabón puede perfeccionarse técnicamente sin que la secuencia, tomada en su conjunto, se perfeccione moralmente. El fenómeno resultante se denomina «dataficación de la vida humana»: el individuo reducido a una identidad, una ubicación, un patrón de comportamiento, un índice de amenaza.
Esto no es una abstracción. En abril de 2024, una investigación de Yuval Abraham para +972 Magazine y Local Call describió a «Lavender», un sistema utilizado por las fuerzas armadas israelíes en Gaza para asignar a decenas de miles de personas una probabilidad de afiliación a grupos armados.
Según fuentes internas citadas en la investigación, la verificación humana de cada nombre a menudo no duraba más de veinte segundos: el tiempo necesario para determinar que el objetivo era un hombre.
Las Fuerzas de Defensa de Israel han refutado este relato y han descrito a «Lavender» como una base de datos diseñada para apoyar a los analistas.
Sin embargo, incluso si se acepta la versión oficial, el meollo del asunto sigue siendo el mismo: había un operador humano presente, y su presencia no fue suficiente para transformar la recomendación del sistema en un juicio.
La psicología cognitiva tiene un nombre para este fenómeno, el sesgo de automatización: la tendencia de quienes trabajan con un sistema automatizado a tratar sus recomendaciones como un sustituto de su propia verificación y a no buscar la información que pudiera contradecirlas.
Ya en 1976, Joseph Weizenbaum —quien había creado uno de los primeros programas conversacionales de la historia— ya distinguía entre la capacidad de calcular y la capacidad de juzgar, y argumentaba que hay tareas que no deberían confiarse a una computadora, incluso si esta fuera capaz de realizarlas. Medio siglo después, esta distinción se ha vuelto aún más apremiante. La computación trabaja con lo que ya se ha traducido en datos. El juicio debe decidir si esa traducción ha sido fiel.
Dehshiri deja claro este punto con cuatro distinciones: la precisión técnica no es precisión ética; la exactitud no es justicia; la automatización no es responsabilidad; la superioridad tecnológica no es superioridad moral.
Yo agregaría una quinta, de naturaleza epistémica, de la que dependen las demás: la correlación no es comprensión. Un sistema de aprendizaje automático reconoce patrones estadísticos en un conjunto de datos. No sabe qué es una escuela, porque no sabe qué es un niño, y ni siquiera sabe que no sabe esto.
L’iraniano cita un interesante estudio de caso: el 28 de febrero de 2026, en las primeras horas de la guerra, la escuela primaria Shajareh Tayyebeh en Minab, en la provincia de Hormozgan, fue alcanzada varias veces durante el horario escolar.
Las cifras proporcionadas por las autoridades iraníes oscilan entre 150 y 175 muertos, la gran mayoría de los cuales eran niñas, junto con docenas de maestros y algunos padres; el fiscal del distrito fijó el número total de muertos en 156.
Washington nunca ha reconocido directamente su responsabilidad ni ha publicado los resultados de la investigación del Pentágono. Amnistía Internacional ha descrito el incidente, en el mejor de los casos, como un grave fallo de inteligencia.
Hay un detalle, revelado por imágenes satelitales, que traslada el análisis del plano moral al fáctico.
Según los medios occidentales, la escuela se encontraba junto a una base naval perteneciente a la Guardia Revolucionaria y anteriormente había formado parte de ella; entre las explicaciones que circulan en los círculos estadounidenses se encuentra la de datos de selección de objetivos desactualizados.
Si se confirmara esta hipótesis, Minab no sería un caso de una máquina que cometió un error, sino de una base de datos que había dejado de corresponder a la realidad. El edificio había cambiado. Los datos, no.
Ningún algoritmo de clasificación, por muy sofisticado que sea, puede detectar que un antiguo edificio militar se ha convertido en una escuela si nadie ha registrado el cambio. Todos los que vivían en Minab lo sabían: los padres que llevaban a sus hijas a la escuela cada mañana, el conductor del autobús escolar, los maestros.
Este es precisamente el tipo de información que recopila el HUMINT y que la guerra a distancia tiende a considerar superflua, porque es lenta, costosa y difícil de ampliar. Con base en fuentes de dominio público, la responsabilidad de EE. UU. parece altamente probable, aunque las circunstancias exactas siguen sin estar claras y el nivel de certeza en este punto es bajo: un error en la base de datos, un error de clasificación o una aceptación consciente del riesgo.
Sin embargo, las tres hipótesis convergen en la misma pregunta. ¿Quién, antes del ataque, verificó si había personas en ese edificio?
Más allá del «human-in-the-loop»
El debate internacional se ha conformado durante mucho tiempo con el principio de human-in-the-loop, según el cual un ser humano forma parte del ciclo de toma de decisiones.
Esta fórmula es insuficiente: una persona puede estar presente en el ciclo y, sin embargo, limitarse a dar el visto bueno a la recomendación del algoritmo.
Él propone sustituirlo por un principio más exigente, al que denomina humanity-in-command: la capacidad efectiva de cuestionar, rechazar, anular y detener el proceso automatizado.
La historia de la Guerra Fría ofrece dos ejemplos que aclaran lo que esto significa en la práctica. El 26 de septiembre de 1983, el sistema soviético de alerta temprana Oko señaló el lanzamiento de cinco misiles balísticos desde Estados Unidos.
El oficial de guardia, Stanislav Petrov, descartó la alarma como una falsa alarma y no la reportó como un ataque en curso, razonando que un primer ataque estadounidense nunca consistiría en solo cinco misiles.
Tenía razón: el satélite había confundido el reflejo del sol en las nubes con lanzamientos de misiles.
Veintiún años antes, el 27 de octubre de 1962, en el mar del Caribe, el submarino soviético B-59, aislado y bajo fuego de cargas de profundidad, estaba a punto de lanzar un torpedo con ojiva nuclear. El lanzamiento requería el consentimiento de los tres oficiales de mayor rango a bordo, y Vasily Arkhipov se negó a darlo.
En ninguno de los dos casos el hombre aprobó una recomendación del sistema. La contradijo. Y no lo hizo porque tuviera más datos: de hecho, los datos eran el problema.
Lo hizo porque sabía plantearse una pregunta que ningún procedimiento le exigía hacer, a saber, si lo que estaba viendo tenía sentido en el contexto de todo lo demás que sabía sobre el mundo.
Petrov estaba familiarizado con la doctrina nuclear estadounidense; Arkhipov sabía la diferencia entre un ataque y una amenaza. Es esta capacidad de comparar la señal con el panorama general, el detalle con lo que es plausible, lo que yo denomino Inteligencia Humana. Vale la pena señalar que el Dena fue hundido por un submarino. No sabemos qué se les preguntó a sus oficiales, ni qué margen de discreción tenían para tomar decisiones.
Esta propuesta debe aclararse, ya que existe el riesgo de reducirla a un llamado humanista genérico. La Inteligencia Humana, tal como yo la entiendo, se estructura en tres niveles distintos, cada uno de los cuales marca un límite estructural —más que contingente— de la inteligencia artificial.
El primer nivel es epistémico. La tradición escolástica distinguía entre intellectus, el acto mediante el cual la mente capta inmediatamente una verdad, y ratio, el proceso discursivo de pasar de un elemento a otro: para Tomás de Aquino (Summa Theologiae, I, q. 79, a. 8), ambos no son facultades distintas, sino aspectos de un único intelecto, en el que el razonamiento comienza con una comprensión y regresa a una comprensión. Los sistemas actuales de aprendizaje automático logran una ratio de una potencia sin precedentes, capaz de inferir, combinar y predecir a escalas inaccesibles para la mente humana.
Carecen del aspecto del intellectus, es decir, de la comprensión del significado de lo que procesan. Esta es una tesis filosófica y debe presentarse como tal, pero tiene consecuencias prácticas precisas: un sistema desprovisto de comprensión no puede saber cuándo su propio modelo del mundo se ha vuelto falso.
El segundo aspecto es práctico.La Prudentia, según la definición tomista, es la razón recta aplicada a la acción, y su tarea específica consiste en aplicar el principio universal al caso particular. La máquina generaliza: su valor radica en asignar el caso individual a una clase.
La prudencia hace lo contrario, porque debe reconocer qué es lo que, en este caso particular, queda fuera de la clase. La guerra, que es el ámbito de lo singular y lo imprevisto, es el escenario donde esta diferencia tiene mayor peso.
La nota Antiqua et nova del Vaticano, de enero de 2025, retomó esta línea de pensamiento, haciendo hincapié en la naturaleza encarnada y relacional de la inteligencia humana y su irreducibilidad a una mera función de procesamiento.
El tercer nivel es relacional, y es aquí donde el significado filosófico se encuentra con el de los servicios de inteligencia. Sherman Kent, quien de hecho fundó el campo de los estudios de inteligencia en los Estados Unidos de la posguerra, lo definió ante todo como conocimiento, incluso antes que como organización o actividad.
El HUMINT es la forma de este conocimiento que pasa a través del otro como persona: alguien que habla su idioma, conoce sus costumbres, sabe interpretar un barrio y puede distinguir una fiesta de una manifestación.
Durante las últimas tres décadas, las grandes potencias han ido desviando progresivamente recursos hacia disciplinas técnicas, desde la inteligencia de señales hasta la vigilancia satelital, pasando por las plataformas de fusión de datos. Minab ilustra el costo de este desequilibrio.
Nada de esto implica un rechazo a la tecnología. La inteligencia humana no se opone a la IA de la misma manera que un manual se opone a un mecánico. Establece una jerarquía: el algoritmo como herramienta subordinada a un juicio que no puede producir por sí mismo. Y de ahí se deriva un principio, formulado por Dehshiri, que merece convertirse en un criterio operativo: cuanto más aleja la tecnología al actor de las consecuencias de sus propias acciones, más debe aumentar —y no disminuir— la responsabilidad consciente de quien toma la decisión.
Desde el punto de vista geopolítico
Hasta ahora, el tema podría parecer una cuestión de filosofía moral. No es solo eso. La distribución de la capacidad de guerra algorítmica es una distribución de poder, y las reglas que la rigen serán redactadas —si es que llegan a redactarse— por aquellos que tienen interés en limitarlas lo menos posible.
El estado del derecho internacional lo confirma. El grupo de expertos gubernamentales establecido en virtud de la Convención sobre Ciertas Armas Convencionales ha estado discutiendo los sistemas de armas autónomas letales desde 2017 sin haber llegado a un instrumento vinculante.
En noviembre de 2023, Estados Unidos promovió una declaración política sobre el uso militar responsable de la IA, que por definición no es vinculante; en diciembre del mismo año, la Asamblea General de las Naciones Unidas adoptó la primera resolución dedicada a estos sistemas, mientras que el Comité Internacional de la Cruz Roja ha venido pidiendo desde 2021 la prohibición de los sistemas autónomos impredecibles y de aquellos diseñados para atacar a seres humanos.
En junio de 2024, en su intervención en la cumbre del G7 en Borgo Egnazia, el papa Francisco pidió que nunca se le permitiera a una máquina decidir sobre la vida de una persona. La brecha entre estas posturas y la realidad en los campos de batalla de 2026 se mide en víctimas.
También existe una asimetría más profunda. Quienes controlan los datos deciden quién es un objetivo, y las víctimas de la guerra algorítmica se encuentran en su mayoría fuera de Occidente: en Gaza, Irán, el Sahel y Yemen.
Para los Estados que no producen las plataformas ni controlan sus bases de datos, la inteligencia humana se convierte así en una cuestión de soberanía.
Un país que cuenta con pericia lingüística, conocimiento regional y redes de inteligencia humana conserva su autonomía de juicio; un país que confía su visión del mundo a sistemas diseñados en otros lugares —a menudo por empresas privadas— la cede junto con sus datos. En un orden que tiende hacia la multipolaridad, esta distinción separará a los actores que juzgan de aquellos que son juzgados.
Esto conduce a una propuesta concreta, que desarrollaré en futuros artículos. Junto con el principio general de una supervisión humana significativa, el derecho internacional humanitario podría codificar una obligación específica de verificación humana del estatus civil de cada infraestructura fija incluida en una lista de objetivos, con una fecha de vencimiento más allá de la cual la información se vuelve inválida y debe renovarse utilizando fuentes directas. Esta es una norma mínima.
Aplicada a Minab, habría requerido que alguien preguntara si ese edificio seguía siendo lo que los registros indicaban que era.
La tecnología puede determinar cómo un arma llega a su objetivo, mientras que le corresponde a la humanidad decidir si ese objetivo debe ser atacado. La pregunta subyacente a todo esto es quién, en términos prácticos, ejerce esa humanidad, con qué herramientas de conocimiento y dentro de qué instituciones.
En Minab, alguien debería haber sabido que había una escuela allí. El hecho de que nadie lo supiera, o de que nadie preguntara, es el punto desde el cual debemos volver a empezar.
American philosopher Susan Neiman's new book Call it Evil: Understanding the Trump Era has no shame as it brands Trump wicked for liking free-market capitalism while ruing the end of communism in Europe, says Chris Milton.
Some 40 miles (65 km) from Thessaloniki, a teenager who would go on to reshape the ancient world once sat listening to lessons on physics, ethics and politics under stone colonnades. That teenager was Alexander the Great; his teacher was Aristotle; and the classroom was a monumental gymnasium carved into the rock near the modern […]
In our relentlessly optimized world, Justin Neuman calls for more nothing. More time for both adults and kids to engage in free, unstructured play. More opportunities to play games without competition or scoring. More chances to do things without needing to produce outputs or achieve goals. More “transitional spaces” through which we can practice, imagine, and think.
For years, I’ve commuted on foot from Grand Central Station to 14th Street, 30 blocks, give or take. I told myself it was exercise, or that I was saving the subway fare, or that I liked the air. But the truth is I was thinking. Or rather, I was letting thinking happen. The lecture I couldn’t outline at my desk would assemble itself somewhere around 34th Street, the important points falling into sequence with my footfalls, the argument clarifying as if the motion itself were doing the editing. I wasn’t working on the lecture. I was walking in it, the way my kids were playing in Catan.
For years, a small fragment of papyrus lay unnoticed in the collections of the French Institute of Oriental Archaeology in Cairo. No one had looked closely at it until, in early 2026, Belgian papyrologist Nathan Carlig of the University of Liège realized what he had in front of him: a previously unknown fragment of the […]
When I was little I had a ritual with my parents where, as they tucked me into bed, they’d tell me a few reasons why they loved me (yes, I know how lucky I am to have been raised in an environment like this). As part of their list, I always asked them to say I was careful, and dutifully they’d repeat, “Yes, of course, we love you because you’re so careful.” I needed my parents’ words to ward against a recurring-day-mare-type vision I had in those years, in which I climbed onto our roof and then, while recklessly peering over the edge, toppled off the eave and cracked open my skull. I would never have put myself in that situation in waking life; I was so cautious that even an imagined scenario in which I endangered myself was enough to terrify me. But being reassured of my carefulness night after night made me feel safer.
My prudent youth did involve a handful of responsibly chaperoned birthday parties at Northern California climbing gyms, and a handful of climbing excursions in the Sierras with my grandfather, but ironically the flatland of Minnesota is where I got serious about the sport. During those unrelentingly brutal winters I seized upon climbing for exercise and entertainment—in the gym, since it was colder than the dark side of Mars outside—as a way to stave off cabin fever in the long months of permafrost. On a recent visit back to the Twin Cities at the close of one such winter, right after a session at the gym where I first cut my teeth, I posted up on the patio of an organic café to bask in the abrupt warmth of springtime. A guy sitting at the table next to me asked if I was a climber—our veiny forearms signal us to one another like Harley-Davidson jackets do for bikers—and I said yes. We started chatting.
This guy had just moved to town to save his own life. He was a paraglider, parachutist, kite-surfer, and wingsuiter, and he said that in the last year a dozen members of his inner circle “went in,” including his best friend and his brother, all in accidents related to their gravity-skirting pursuits. At first I couldn’t figure out what he meant by “went in,” but as I listened to him enumerate their various methods of “going in,” I eventually realized he was telling me they had all died. I could hardly comprehend the reality he described: being at the heart of a community where loved ones blink out in droves, like candles in a gale. He knew if he stayed in the game as a professional extreme athlete, pressured by peers and sponsors alike to remain at the cutting edge, he himself wouldn’t be around much longer. So, sight-unseen, he moved to the flattest and boringest place he’d ever heard of: Minnesota. He came specifically because there weren’t any cliffs for him to throw himself off. Only a few months into his new life as a Minnesotan, he was still in the jittery, cold turkey phase of his thrill detox.
“You done much free soloing?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. A truer answer would have been HELL NO I’M A WIMP, MY PARENTS LOVE ME BECAUSE I’M CAREFUL.
“Amazing feeling,” he said. “Being certain if you fuck up you’ll die, and being equally certain you won’t fuck up.”
We listened to the birds, sipped our coffees. I picked at the remains of my huevos rancheros. The juncos twittering around us sounded gladder than usual to be alive. I asked, “Is it really that much less fun to have a rope on? Like, clip a few draws? Place some cams along the way?”
He shook his head. “Once you been hucking yourself off the high dive, it’s no fun jumping off the edge of the pool.”
This at least rang true. Even I find it boring to jump off the edge of the pool.
“Glad you got out when you did,” I said.
He nodded grimly, seeming less glad than I was. Then I asked what he was getting up to instead. Of course, it was the most extreme thing you can do on flat ground.
“Ultramarathons,” he said.
He didn’t seem interested in probing his own psychology or rationales. He unapologetically liked the feeling of being adrenalized, and he wanted to feel that feeling as much as possible without killing himself. Why turn it into some elaborate trolley problem? For those living on the outer edges of risk, I suspect confidence is the key to survival: the confidence in one’s ability to assess a risk and then the confidence to execute the necessary action once a risk is deemed acceptable. Extreme athletes don’t seem to think too hard, at least on an abstract philosophical level, about the dangers they face. Their engagement is logistical, methodical. Far more productive to test the snowpack, visualize the beta, read the weather report, double-check the way the parachute is folded, determine what direction the wind blows down the talus field.
Rather than focusing on what we stand to lose, what riches does risk put us in position to gain?
But risk has been on my mind of late, because, much to my own surprise, my relationship to it has been changing. Recently I was on a very tall boulder called the Kraken, and it felt like I spent a hundred years with the sand in its penultimate pocket rolling grittily under my fingertips while I searched the rounded top of the block for a hold I could trust. A part of me is there still, suspended in that epoch of hold hunting, gearing up for the final move. This is one of risk’s most obvious gifts, the chance to experience that rare, thin-slicing acuity where each separate millisecond stands out like an image etched in stone. The present dilates to activate the past and future, too, as though we’re living our whole life all at once. With a cognitive rapacity available only during a fight-or-flight response, we cast our gaze forward, asking what grim future will bloom if we fall. And simultaneously cast it back, asking what errors in our past have brought us to this crossroads. Have I survived a situation like this before? Will I get lucky and survive again?
In a film, that’s where the music would come up, dissonant strings, ringing ears, the drums increasing tempo. It’s odd that the times of our deepest dumbstruck not-knowingness should be called “moments of truth.” I found a shallow, sandy divot for my right hand, threw my left heel high over the lip, and rolled onto the top of the boulder. A friend took photos, but it makes me uncomfortable to look at them.
From the back seat of a lifted pickup, deep house oozing out of a handmade portable stereo that Owen built into an antique suitcase, I look over the truck bed at the contrail of dust we send into the Eastern Sierra evening. Our pilot expertly navigates a kaleidoscope of dirt roads to deliver us at the Crab Cooker. Tumbling out of the truck we grab towels, water bottles, and puffy jackets, and walk a raised wooden path to the area’s hottest hot spring. An eggy, algal cloud envelops us before the spring itself comes into view. Then we see the rock-rimmed pool, a steam plume ascending from a dark crater. The water here, when it first comes to the surface, hovers around 150 degrees Fahrenheit—hot enough to cook crabs, no exaggeration in the name—so people cut it with cold water from a surface stream until it comes down to around 110. The pool is still hotter than any man-made tub I’ve ever sunk myself into, and its scalding sting feels spectacular on the aches we’ve accrued from several consecutive climbing days at the Buttermilks and in Owens River Gorge. We keep our hands lifted above the surface of the water so our hard-earned calluses don’t melt off.
Parallel to us climbers, there runs an entire subculture of hot springs enthusiasts who travel the country to find the loveliest, toastiest, unlikeliest geothermal pools that tectonics has to offer. Connecting with this odd population of wanderers is one of the surprise pleasures of our annual Bishop trip. The Crab Cooker must rank high on their list. Wild sage and scrubby junipers riddle the sand, boulders punctuate the foothills and draws, and the impressive ridgelines of the Sierra Eastside tower over it all, seemingly close enough to splash with the flick of a finger. At sunset the land gets saturated with glory and import and impeccable desert light, and we in our good fortune get to gaze at this panorama while the guts of the planet warm us to temperatures well in excess of our own hearts’ heat.
When, to our surprise, two bodies coalesce out of the steam, we apologize for our loudness and promptly shut down the stereo. The strangers don’t mind, they say, they’ve been enjoying the ruckus. The new arrivals are a pair of Germans, a father and his grown son, who have been touring America together. Before long our separate conversations become enmeshed in the small pool. We learn that the younger soaker, the son, used to be an accomplished extreme athlete. He somberly explains that he found himself a lonelier and lonelier survivor as his BASE-jumping and wingsuiting friends went in. Hearing the phrase now for the second time, I’m struck by the gentleness of the euphemism, far softer than the verb to crater, as in “their parachute didn’t deploy and they cratered,” which I’d heard in gruffer conversations with BASE jumpers. I picture these lost friends “going in” to a collective reserve of matter and spirit, the heavenly welter where all unmade is remade. Although, with the image of a crater in mind, I suppose “going in” could refer not to the eternally cyclical return to one’s mysterious origin but rather to a body “going in” to the ground at terminal velocity. Needless to say, I don’t ask the German.
He explains to a rapt audience that last year, upon successfully landing a jump, his still-open parachute caught a fierce gust of wind that slammed him into a cliff and dragged him across a talus field. Multiple impacts against the rocks shattered innumerable bones, including several in his back. By coincidence, the guy’s best friend was flying the emergency helicopter that came to collect his ragdoll body. To those on board it looked like a hopeless case, a certain fatality, but in the end the guy survived. Hearing the story, I look to my own best friend soaking by my side. We make eye contact and discreetly drop our jaws a fraction of a centimeter, a silent exchange of Jesus fucking Christ.
“Jesus Christ,” I say aloud to the German.
“It’s no problem,” the guy says, gesturing grandly at the mountain-rimmed basin that surrounds us. “Happy I am living.”
He’s still in the middle of a years-long rehabilitation process, he explains. He points to a neck brace he’d removed before his soak, whose plastic struts I now see glowing in the moonlight, a safe distance back from the water where it won’t get splashed. “It’s no problem to wear that sometimes.”
“Just like when he was a baby,” the dad says cheerfully. “I help him eat, then I help him shit!”
We typically view risk in relation to death—inviting its possibility, skirting its tentacles—but I’ve lately been exploring a philosophy that views risk, instead, in relation to life. Rather than focusing on what we stand to lose, what riches does risk put us in position to gain? This question came by way of a book called Éloge du risque by French philosopher Anne Dufourmantelle. It hadn’t yet been translated into English, but with undergrad French memories and a Larousse dictionary in hand, I bought a copy and dove in. I worked on my translations of Éloge du risque while riding the Flatiron Flyer bus between Boulder and Denver. During this commute the Flatirons themselves rise to the west like a fleet of ships tacking in formation, their huge reddish triangular faces making a tidy row of sails afloat on a choppy sea of pine.
A route called Freeway ascends the Second Flatiron (they’re numbered sequentially from north to south), and locals tell me it’s a fun, dead-easy romp for the entire thousand feet of the eastern face. Nobody bothers to use the melodramatic phrase free solo; they just call it a scramble. The route has seen barefoot ascents, no-hands ascents, and, the clearest indicator of its difficulty, an ascent by a climber wearing roller skates. For some reason I never wonder whether I’m going to climb it, I just know, innately, that I’m going to. It’s an indicator that my relationship to risk is changing. Even still, as I prepare to solo—sorry, scramble—the Second, I approach it with a solemnity bordering on gloom. I warm up at home, stretch, fuel and hydrate, tidy the basement so that if I die I won’t leave an unsightly mess for my landlady to deal with. Ridiculous. The short drive across town feels haunted, with the Flatirons leering in the windshield as I pilot my way westward. I park and take a deep breath before exiting the vehicle. Walk up the trail, a well-beaten one that sees countless tourists and toddlers safely along the base of the range, taking every rock-hopping step with exaggerated care, testing the infallibility of my balance. And then I sit at the base of the Second for ages, meditative and serious, while a string of a half-dozen stoned teenagers fire the route, unroped, not even pausing their giggling conversation as they step off the trail and onto the rock.
Supposedly there’s a crux around fifty feet off the ground, but for me it turned out the crux was just deciding to do it. When I finally put on my climbing shoes, tuck my sneakers into my backpack, and lay my hands on the crystalline stone, hard moves are absolutely nowhere to be found. The climbing feels easier than walking, in fact, since I get to use my hands in addition to my feet. From a hundred feet up, and again at three hundred and again at five hundred, I glance down at the sandstone ramp the foot of the mountain makes, observe how the trail gets thinner and the trees get smaller as I rise, and experience a wave of giddiness. I sip that sensation like champagne, peering, bubbling, then I turn my face to the wall and continue the scramble. At the summit I sit a long time and look east at a flat expanse of town and plain that appears to extend all the way to the Atlantic. I’ve wagered my life, and have been repaid tenfold.
A week later, I take an incremental step up in difficulty and try the Third Flatiron. Locals, I notice, do tend to refer to this one as a solo, not a scramble. I’m exiting the kiddie pool. Again I follow the trail through Chautauqua Park with a measure of unease in my gut, hiking through grassy open fields up into the pine sea, and then across a stretch of loose talus to the base of the route. A thousand angling, rippling feet of sandstone thrust westward, the summit hidden from view. I bring my chalk bag this time and coat my palms with a layer of white dust to keep them from slickening with sweat. Unlike the Second, the Third is a legitimate, if moderate, climb. I make careful progress, never moving more than one limb at a time, testing each handhold for soundness, testing each surface for slipperiness, before entrusting my weight to it. Focus, rather than rhapsody, rules the experience. The crux comes at the top. Until that point I’d been hanging on bucket-like holds, generous craters, but the rock comprising the last twenty feet below the peak has been worn smooth by the elements. Though the terrain is low angle, it’s holdless as an asphalt road. This section, I knew from my research beforehand, would require a few moves of open-hand slab climbing. In the absence of tangible features on the cliff, you just paste your hands and feet onto the surface and rely on friction to hold you in place.
Slab is an unnerving, faith-based style of climbing, and those few moves—a thousand feet off the ground, knowing a fall would be fatal—demand a degree of meticulousness I’ve never before needed to summon. To summon it that afternoon is like flexing a new muscle for the very first time. I feel each grain of the gritty matrix as it deforms the skin of my fingertips, fitting the ridges of my fingerprint to match the ridges of the Flatiron’s surface. I attune to the gumminess of my shoe, the pressure of the ball of my foot compressing its rubber sole, filling completely the negative space of the rock’s surface. Death isn’t on my mind. It’s a million miles away. I know I will be perfect, and this perfection will make me invincible. If I fall, my last thought will be I never saw this coming. But I wager; I scurry. I summit. From the top I stare down at the backs of raptors, at the pine and the prairie, and again my spirit prospers.
The next morning from the bus I cast a lingering glance over the Flatirons. I look at the granulated ripples of the cliffs and superimpose my antlike image onto them, watching memories of myself crawl up the faces as if in footage captured by a drone. I’m still up there, forever taking those calm breaths, forever palming those grainy domes. Fellow commuters catch me wearing a moony smile. Now, pen gripped in my teeth, Éloge du risque open in my lap, my gaze drifts a click northward. My newfound muscle twitches. In the notebook for my scraps and outlines I write FOR RISK ESSAY: SOLO THE FIRST? After spending the day on campus I get back on the bus for my evening commute, and that scribbled notion digs into me uncomfortably. The wobble on the highway made my script look manic. It is manic. The idea stands squarely outside of what I consider to be an acceptable level of climbing risk. From the bus window the First dominates the ridgeline as the Flatirons fall into shadow. Morning and evening light seem to fashion two different ranges out of the same rock space. When I try on the idea of soloing the First, it feels like a too-small sweater pulled over my head, grabbing my skull. I know I should rip it off and discard it. But I could also push my way inside. I recall a strong, confident climber-friend whose trip report after soloing the First was simply, “I’m never going to do that again.” I wondered what had happened to turn his face so ashen, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t pry.
These accident reports save lives more directly, more demonstrably, than poetry or scripture.
Climbing culture has a storytelling idiom I call “Close Calls.” They’re an inversion of just-so stories; instead of tales of creation like “How the Zebra Got Its Stripes” or “How the Giraffe’s Neck Got So Long,” Close Calls focus on tales of destruction like “How Rebecca Lost Her Leg” or “How Johnny Lost His Partner.” Years ago at the base of the Incredible Hulk, a gorgeous granite outcrop in the Sierras, Owen and I were preparing to climb the classic Red Dihedral. We’d undertaken the steep approach hike in the evening, stove heated some expired and deeply disappointing beef stew, and established our bivvy beside a picturesque rivulet riffling through a boulder field. Two young women camped at another minimeadow a few hundred feet downstream, and when the stars came up, they invited us down for a sip of whiskey. We splashed a bit of warmish bourbon into our unwashed bowls, resulting in a cocktail like a hot Sazerac with a beef-grease rinse instead of an absinthe one. During that night’s edition of Close Calls, we hear of a time an inexperienced leader led a pitch and built an anchor, and one of the women (now sipping her whiskey between plot points) followed him up, arriving at a worthless nest of protection that, had she fallen, would have sputtered from the wall and killed them both. Next my buddy describes watching a climber follow an outdoor route on top-rope, unclipping each draw along the way, and then, at the top, unclipping the two draws that held the rope, and then, the height of outrageousness, untying his rope and dropping it to the ground, meaning he was now clinging to holds a hundred feet off the deck with nothing else to hold him in place. By some miracle a professional climber was on a route next door and, seeing the disaster unfold, climbed to the stranded kid in minutes with a spare rope to reattach him to the world.
As with any public storytelling genre, there’s a ritual to it. One teller shares the scariest climbing story they’ve heard or experienced, a story of someone’s closest call. The fireside audience takes in the punchline—a survival unscathed, a rescue, an injury, a fatality—in solemn contemplation. After a respectful interval and perhaps another sip of whiskey, the next teller narrates an even closer call. For listeners familiar enough with safety systems to fully appreciate the danger, miscommunication, unpreparedness or negligence in these stories, the tales provide riveting entertainment, in their own grim way. But they serve a deeper purpose, too, in that they circulate these scenarios as a risk-prevention measure. The same could be said of the more formal narratives published by the American Alpine Club. Their style is unadorned, a blow-by-blow sequence of errors that led up to an injury or death on the wall, but safety-oriented climbers read these annual accident reports with biblical devotion. Instead of re-living old traumas, these prudent folks pre-live them, learning to deal with such catastrophes should they arise or, better yet, learning to avoid such catastrophes altogether. These accident reports save lives more directly, more demonstrably, than poetry or scripture.
We could easily swap Close Calls all night, but both teams are planning to start our ascents of the Hulk at dawn, so we force ourselves to break up the party before it gets too late. I brush my teeth, taking a gamble on unfiltered river water, and tuck myself into bed. In the sleeping bag, staring up at the densest panorama of stars I’ve seen in months, I wonder what moment, in my life so far, was the moment I was nearest to death. My own closest call, in a statistical sense, when my odds of survival were lowest. At first I think it would land among the instances when I was most afraid. There was a hike to a ghost town called Lundy when I was dead certain I was being stalked by a mountain lion. Or a time at an outdoor concert in Denver when gunshots broke out and the whole crowd stampeded in panic away from the brutal sound. Then I wonder if my closest call fell among the times I sustained an injury: a spinout on the highway from a blown tire, a fainting spell in the Rockies brought on by dehydration and exhaustion, a split forehead from an ice cave collapse that let me see my own skull through the hole in my skin. But in all likelihood, I bet the moment passed by me altogether unnoticed. One of my countless midnights on a two-lane country road, maybe, when the approaching headlights belonged to a drunk driver, or a trucker on the cusp of sleep, or a heartsick teenager composing a text to an ex. So long as they keep their car on the proper side of the yellow line, I never know the peril I’m in.
This evening in Boulder the sky is not its usual bluebird. From the egress window of my cheap-ass basement rental I see bulbous clouds gathering overhead. A handful of months have passed and by now the Second Flatiron scramble has become my go-to after-work workout. I lap it a couple times a week, not bothering with climbing shoes anymore, just using the same busted sneakers I wear for the approach hike. But when it rains, the rock slickens, the lichen sucks up moisture and magically transforms from a crust to a lubricant. Given the inclement weather, it’s shaping up to be a work night. So instead of soloing—sorry, scrambling—at sunset, I’m at my desk with a mug of mint tea, bringing Dufourmantelle into English word by word. Risk, she writes and I translate, “inaugurates an other time, as though traumatic. But a positive trauma.”
“An other time” makes me think, to my discredit, of the movie Donnie Darko. The premise of that film, as I interpret it, is that one night in a freak accident an airplane engine fell through the roof of the protagonist Donnie’s house, and should have crushed him, except that he was somnambulantly chasing a giant nightmare rabbit onto a golf course at the time, and thereby avoided his fate. This sets in motion an alternate universe—the one where Donnie lives—that runs alongside the one in which he rightfully dies. I think this is what Dufourmantelle means: When we take a risk, knowing we’ll either experience a near-miss like the Donnie who lives or a direct hit like the Donnie who dies, we create a narrative fork in the road. I’ve long wondered what wingsuiters, free soloists, and skydivers gain through their constant navigation of risk, and tonight I start to sense it. When carefully and responsibly considered, these dangerous activities let adventurers inhabit innumerable parallel universes. We get to live infinite lives and die infinite deaths as, in preparation, we imagine the outcomes and contingencies of each climb, each jump, each flight. The potential plotlines proliferate and the density of our life experience increases. Time dilates to accommodate not only the life we’ve lived and the life we will lead, but also all the lives we might have lived, and might yet lead.
I turn my attention to trauma positif. It’s an uncomfortable phrase. The language carries a reminder that many people experience risk and precarity only under duress. As far as I’m concerned, the privilege inherent in elective risk is alpinism’s original sin, and a key reason that, despite the vast increase in diversity and gender parity in climbing in the last decade, the sport has been slow to shake its aura of patriarchy and whiteness. But Dufourmantelle’s claims sound right to me. Just as negative trauma has the power to reshape the stories that people tell themselves about themselves and about the worlds they inhabit, so too can a trauma positif rewrite a person’s history, even as it rewrites their future. As a result of the risks I’ve taken, and the trauma positif of surviving them, I’m phasing out the story that I’m a meek person. Now, with demonstrable evidence, I must tell myself I’m capable of being brave. Maybe every time you risk your life, you lose it: You lose the life you had before taking the risk, and supplant that life with a new one. A solo of the First Flatiron feels this way for me. Ever since moving to town I’ve told myself I couldn’t solo it. So if I solo it, the version of me too frightened to try it will die.
Days later I see the headline in the local paper: “17-Year-Old Falls to His Death While Climbing Boulder’s First Flatiron.” There’s a photograph of the formation I’ve spent my daily commute mulling over, and the article below:
Equipped with camping and outdoor survival gear—but no climbing-specific equipment—a 17-year-old died after climbing alone and falling up to 100 feet or more from Boulder’s First Flatiron on Sunday evening.
Climber rescues, and non-fatal falls, are common every summer across the iconic rock formations above Chautauqua Park. But this appears to be the first accidental climbing death on the Flatirons in nine years.
The teenager—whose identity has not yet been released, and who officials initially said was 18—was found by a hiker near the base of the First Flatiron, above the Blue Bell Shelter in Chautauqua Park, according to Boulder County sheriff’s officials.
Sheriff’s Cmdr. Mike Wagner said the teen was free-soloing—climbing alone, without the use of ropes or gear—on the First Flatiron when he fell possibly more than 100 feet and suffered “massive traumatic injuries.”
Sources report that the climber took a selfie and posted it to Instagram shortly before the fall. There follow, in the next few days, admonishments from the climbing community, the oft-repeated self-assurances that this kid was unprepared but we know better, and more than a few references to a phenomenon known as “Kodak Courage,” where the possibility of taking an impressive photograph pushes a climber past their typical margin of safety. The next time I walk up to the foot of the First Flatiron, a sober memorial sits at the base of a pine tree. Cards, flowers, offerings. A printout of the photo the climber snapped and posted minutes before his death.
Toward the tail end of the same season the paper runs another headline: “Climber Dies After Falling from Boulder’s First Flatiron.” This time there’s a different stock photo of the mountain, now caked with snow. The article reads:
A man climbing on the First Flatiron on Thursday afternoon fell to his death, the second person to die following an accidental plummet off of the iconic Boulder landmark since August but only the second in nearly a decade.
Boulder County Sheriff’s Office Cmdr. Kevin Parker said that the man—who has not been publicly identified—did not appear to be using any kind of climbing gear, but rescuers were searching the area for any signs of a backpack or gear on Thursday afternoon.
By the time a Denver Post article comes out about the incident later that night, investigators have located and interviewed an eyewitness, so the article is able to provide a bit of additional detail: “The witness believed the climber fell about 1,000 feet from the top of the First Flatiron.”
With that, this essay gets shelved for a spell. It’s not just because the weather has shifted, although the snow on the Front Range makes the Flatirons unclimbable through the winter, intermittent warm days sending rivers of melt down the faces, cold storms stacking new layers of powder over the slush. But more acutely, I realize I’ve been lulled into thinking a solo of the First Flatiron would be a casual endeavor, one that wouldn’t really bring me into proximity of any grave risk. The two deaths, in rapid succession, on the route I’ve planned to climb in the same style abruptly extinguish this confidence, leave me not only shaken but also self-admonishing for having been so cocksure in the first place. I take winter walks through Chautauqua. The snow crunches under my feet, sifts from trailside pine boughs. The Flatirons stand above, their features outlined in icy white. Below, the town of Boulder enjoys its bubble of dreamy calm, a hush of distant traffic in the air, interrupted by an occasional siren belting down Baseline or Table Mesa. During these walking meditations my notebook starts to feel suspiciously similar to the luckless young climber’s selfie camera. Moleskine Courage.
What do we stand to win when our ante is ourselves? The chance to make our finite time feel infinite? The chance to make our finite self feel infinite?
The crux of the First comes in its first hundred feet, where the climbing is particularly thin, slabby and insecure. I stand in the snow at the base—where a second memorial is now tucked in the pines—and visualize the climb. My counterfactual imagination invents a worst-case scenario: I’m not far up the route, approaching the gnarled tree that marks the top of the first pitch where a roped party would typically belay. Immediately below this point there’s a delicate section of friction-dependent slab; the first time I climbed the pitch on rope, this stretch clarified for me that I’d never, ever attempt the route as a solo. There aren’t proper holds, just shallow dishes for the hands and feet. I imagine extending my left foot and placing it in one such divot. I reach farther left with my left hand, where a small diagonal rail supports my left fingertips, stacked in a row. My right hand is similarly stacked in a higher-up dish, and as I go to move my right foot toward my body’s centerline, the left foot slips off. My knees strike the rock first, my elbows a moment after. The angle is low, so I don’t go into full vertical freefall. I bounce down the face. After twenty feet a heel catches and I invert, delivering a rolling blow to my shoulder and an impact to the back of my skull. In my chest a depth charge, a low moan as I land in the talus beside the twin shrines. After my death, my writer-friends will wonder what I was working on in my last days. I’ve kept my preparations for the solo secret, but now they will look in my notebook and see I’ve been planning it for months, getting ready to sacrifice myself for no greater purpose than a literal thought exercise.
I shift my weight in the snow, shake the spectacle out of my head. I return to the trail, the car, the comforts of home.
The winter months pass, long nights, a bomb cyclone that buries my basement windows in snow and leaves me to lurk in the dark like a slumbering bear, and then spring arrives abrupt and clanging and golden. Overnight the Flatirons slough off their snowy coats. Still ambivalent about soloing the First, I go to Chautauqua with two friends, planning to rope up and climb with them as a party of three. This will give me a chance, I figure, to scope the route once more and make a final call. Reassess those dishes and divots, determine whether I can trust my life to them. We spend a long time at the base, not rushing, just racking up and rearranging our packs, sipping water and snacking, enjoying the gorgeous day. The sun dips behind the ridge and the temperature gets perfect, just on the cooler edge of pleasant. The rock won’t be greasy, there’ll be plenty of friction, but it won’t be so cold I’ll get chilly and misinterpret my shivers as fear. Plenty of daylight, light spirits, and for once in my life, I don’t overthink. I know deep in my soul that I don’t need the rope today. So I don’t tie in. I just climb alongside my friends. It’s easier than walking because I get to use my hands, and everything goes perfectly, which means in the end there’s no story at all.
I won’t solo the First again, but not because I hated it. I won’t solo it again because I loved it too much. Since then, I haven’t exactly become a soloist, but I’ve heard the bell-clear siren song from routes a number of times, Johnny Vegas in Red Rocks, the Capstan on Flagstaff Mountain, a few choice cracks in the Sierra, a handful of highballs like Airwolf and High Plains Drifter in various deserts of the West. I am measured and studious, with my books and dictionaries and writing routine and mint tea. I also, when called, enjoy something categorically deadly. Soloing puts me in touch with the multitudes I contain. On insomniac nights I relive the memories of these ropeless ascents, with every detail of every hold seared in my mind in everlasting high resolution, and the perfection of my movements lulls me to sleep. It must sound counterintuitive, but nothing in this world makes me calmer.
The phrase “to risk one’s life” conjures in my mind’s eye a kind of scale, like the one Anubis uses to weigh a heart against a feather. On one of its golden dishes sits your wager, your life; on the other there must be something of equal or greater value in order for the risk to seem worthwhile. What do we stand to win when our ante is ourselves? The chance to make our finite time feel infinite? The chance to make our finite self feel infinite? The satisfaction of saving our own life? Is that payoff enough?
I discovered Anne Dufourmantelle’s work on the university library search engine, under keywords “philosophy” and “risk.” At the time I didn’t look into her biography, just went straight to the primary text. But I’m curious to see what she’s working on now, so I check the regular internet instead of the university database. The first hit is an article from the New York Times, headlined “Philosopher Who Praised Risk Died Trying to Save Children from Drowning.” It reads:
PARIS—A French philosopher and psychoanalyst, known for her work that praised living a life that embraced risk, died last week as a result of following her own bold philosophy.
The philosopher, Anne Dufourmantelle, 53, drowned on Friday as she tried to save two children who were struggling to swim off the coast of Pampelonne beach, near St.-Tropez, France, according to a report from French public television.
Ms. Dufourmantelle was on the beach when the weather began to change and the previously safe swimming area became treacherous. She saw two children who were in danger and leapt into the sea to help, according to France 3, before being caught in the rough surf.
She was pulled unresponsive from the water by two other swimmers, and attempts to resuscitate her failed.
Both children survived.
I’m stunned by how recent the news is: Dufourmantelle died days before the first soloist fell from the First Flatiron. Another search result, an obituary, quotes an English-language lecture she’d once given: “Being completely alive is a task, it’s not at all a given thing. It’s not just about being present to the world, it’s being present to yourself, reaching an intensity that is in itself a way of being reborn.” Having only experienced her work, up until this point, through the veil of translation, there’s something uncannily intimate about reading her words in my own language for the first time. The clarity of it is painful, the poetry self-evident, breaking out of human time and into the mythic. She saw the children, the danger. She saw the swift water. She went in.
Brian Laidlaw is an author of the two collections of poetry, The Mirrormaker and The Stuntman. A songwriter and musician, he has released several albums, most recently This Aster. He writes for outdoor magazines including Outside, Climbing, Alpinist, and Orion. Based out of Moab, Utah, he moonlights—often by literal moonlight—as a rock climber.
To this Greek philosopher, follower of Pythagoras and teacher of Heraclitus, to whom he instilled the idea that the arché or principle of all things was fire, are attributed—disputably—the discovery of irrational numbers, the construction of a dodecahedron inscribed in a sphere, and several works on acoustics. He also founded a mathematical section in the […]
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