Why education is the only weapon against a system designed to control us

I have been thinking a great deal about the origins of government, not as an abstract academic exercise but as a way of making sense of the world I inhabit today.

My concerns have deepened as I watch from afar how democratic institutions in the United States – long held up as a global model – are dismantled by those seeking to consolidate power.

This unravelling has forced me to revisit the classical theories of governance, not to admire their elegance, but to understand how easily structures we assume to be stable can be hollowed out from within.

The more I reflect on these theories, the more I find myself returning to a troubling conclusion: that governments, with few exceptions, have evolved into systems for extracting wealth and controlling populations for the benefit of a small elite.

The illusion begins with law. We are taught that laws maintain order and protect rights, that civil and criminal codes form the backbone of a just society.

But the more I observe how laws are applied and interpreted, the more I see how they function as instruments of control rather than guardians of justice.

Rights are loudly proclaimed yet unevenly protected.

The powerful navigate the legal system with impunity, while ordinary people are reminded constantly of the consequences of disobedience.

The illusion deepens through elections. We are told that the ballot box expresses the will of the people, that governments derive legitimacy from the majority.

But elections often serve as symbolic performances rather than genuine transfers of authority. They rotate faces, not structures. Choices are narrow, managed and shaped by the same interests that dominate the economy.

The result is a political system that appears participatory but remains insulated from the people it claims to represent.

The consequences are visible everywhere. Wealth is concentrated in the hands of a tiny minority, often less than 10% controlling most national resources.

This is not an accident or a quirk of capitalism; it is the logical outcome of a system designed to legitimise extraction.

The law protects property more fiercely than people.

Policies preserve the interests of those who already hold power.

And when the system is challenged, the state responds with the full force of its machinery – legal, economic and sometimes violent.

The events unfolding in the US are a stark example of this.

Closer to home, the pattern is unmistakable. The withdrawal of prosecutions through mechanisms such as the ‘DNAA’ [discharge not amounting to acquittal] have become a stark reminder of how the legal system bends to accommodate those in positions of influence.

When individuals with political or economic power are shielded from accountability, the message is unmistakable: the law is not neutral but pliable, adjustable when the stakes are high enough.

These episodes erode public trust not because they shock us, but because they confirm what many have long suspected – that the system protects itself and its beneficiaries, not the people it claims to serve.

Another method by which power sustains itself in this country is through the deliberate manipulation of ethnic and religious divisions. Instead of nurturing a shared national identity, those in authority often emphasise difference, suspicion and historical grievance.

Communities are encouraged to see one another as threats rather than partners in a common future. Policies and rhetoric reinforce the idea that each group must cling to its protecters or risk losing its place.

A divided population is easier to manage, easier to distract and easier to mobilise selectively when political survival is at stake.

These divisions are not organic; they are cultivated. And once internalised, they become self-perpetuating, making it even harder to imagine a politics grounded in solidarity.

In moments like these, I find myself asking whether there is any way out of this cycle. History offers examples of mass movements that have attempted to challenge entrenched power, but most have been crushed or co-opted.

The state’s monopoly on force, its control of information and its ability to criminalise dissent make collective action extraordinarily difficult. Even when movements achieve temporary victories, the structures of power often reconstitute themselves in new forms.

And yet, we live in a time when new technologies – social media and artificial intelligence – have transformed how individuals communicate and understand the world. For a brief moment, social media seemed to democratise information, allowing ordinary people to bypass traditional gatekeepers.

But it also revealed how easily platforms could be manipulated, surveilled and weaponised. Algorithms amplify division and shape public perception in ways that are largely invisible. The same tools that empower can also entrap.

Artificial intelligence presents an even deeper paradox. It can expand knowledge and democratise expertise, but it can also be centralised and used to reinforce existing hierarchies.

If data and digital infrastructure remain in the hands of the same small group that controls wealth and political institutions, AI may become the most efficient instrument of domination in human history. The danger is not the technology itself, but the structures into which it is absorbed.

So I am left with a difficult question: are we witnessing tools that can break the cycle of exploitation, or simply new instruments for the same old pattern? History suggests that every new technology begins with democratic promise before being captured by entrenched interests.

And yet, I resist despair. For all the ways power manipulates law, divides communities and captures institutions, there remains one space that has not been fully colonised: the human mind.

As an educationist, I have always believed that genuine transformation begins with the ability to see clearly. If the illusion of government is sustained by ignorance, fear and manufactured division, then the antidote must be an education that cultivates critical thought, historical awareness and moral courage.

This requires more than teaching facts. It demands a curriculum that exposes the mechanisms of power, that teaches young people how narratives are constructed, how laws can both protect and oppress, and how fear is used to divide communities that might otherwise stand together.

If we can reshape education in this way, perhaps the next generation will be less easily divided, less easily controlled and less easily persuaded that the structures around them are natural or inevitable.

I do not pretend that education alone can overturn centuries of entrenched power. But I have seen how a single classroom discussion can shift a young person’s understanding of the world.

If there is a way out of the cycles that have defined human history, it may begin with the simple act of teaching people to think for themselves. My hope rests in education – honest, critical and humane – as the seed from which a different future might yet grow.

UK MenonCo-editor, Aliran newsletter10 January 2026