What kind of nation builds its economy around captivity? It is not a new question, though we ask it with a modern urgency. For thousands of years, humans have turned one another into labor. Ancient empires captured enemies in war and put them to work. Tribes absorbed rivals by force, assigning them to the most punishing tasks. Enslavement was not always driven by race, but it was always driven by control. This was a method of expanding wealth and authority through the bodies of others. Captivity has always been about profit. What has changed is not the impulse, but the machinery.

Today, the United States government contracts with private corporations to operate detention centers under the guise of legal procedure. Inside these facilities, detained immigrants clean toilets, cook meals, and mop floors for as little as one dollar a day, and in some cases, for no pay at all. Most have not been convicted of any crime. Officials detain them without trial and still compel them to work. The 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery except as punishment for a crime, forms the legal foundation for this practice. Over time, lawmakers and private interests have expanded that exception, allowing detention itself to serve as punishment. No judge imposes a sentence. No court weighs evidence. Yet, the system moves forward, utilizing migrant labor to reduce costs and increase profits.

If they refuse to comply, they may be moved into solitary confinement or denied access to basic necessities. Private companies such as CoreCivic and GEO Group operate many of these facilities. They profit through contracts with the federal government, reduce their operational costs by extracting labor from detainees, and present this model as efficient, scalable, and lawful. In this arrangement, punishment becomes a strategy. Captivity becomes revenue. People are transformed into cost-saving measures.

This is not the result of bureaucratic failure. It is the result of deliberate design. And that design is being championed by voices who want to see it scaled even further. One of the most visible among them is Curtis Yarvin, a technologist and political theorist who writes under the name Mencius Moldbug. He proposes that the United States should abandon democracy in favor of a single central authority. In his view, the country would run more efficiently if governance resembled corporate management. Rather than elections, a chief executive would issue decisions without needing public approval. In this model, debate is wasteful. Dissent is inefficient. Democracy is not the solution. It is the problem.

Yarvin’s philosophy strips governance of its moral obligations. It reduces leadership to operations and citizens to assets. Order matters more than justice. Outcomes matter more than voices. Once a government begins to imitate business, people start to resemble tools. They are assessed for usefulness. They are categorized by compliance. They are disposed of when they become a liability. Immigrants and incarcerated people are not seen as fellow human beings. They are treated as logistical problems, not as neighbors.

This is not theory. It is visible policy. It is happening in detention centers, as well as in federal contracts and shareholder reports. Governance becomes management. Public life becomes a supply chain. Democracy becomes an obstacle to efficiency. What Yarvin promotes is not a break from history but a continuation of it. He offers feudalism in modern packaging. It is sanitized through digital platforms, explained in sleek manifestos, and sold as innovative rather than cruel.

This worldview stands in direct opposition to some of the oldest moral teachings across human cultures. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, instructed that those under your care must be treated as your brothers, fed from your table, clothed as you clothe yourself, and helped when burdened. The Buddha taught that all living beings tremble before violence, and that compassion must begin with the recognition that others fear and feel as we do. Jesus, in the Gospel of Luke, began his public ministry by reading from the scroll of Isaiah, declaring his purpose to proclaim liberty to the captives. These traditions, separated by time and geography, converge on a single truth. No person is expendable.

And yet here we are. In the wealthiest nation in recorded history, profit is being drawn from confinement. Human labor is being extracted under threat. Corporations are growing rich through the management of detained bodies. We hear arguments for streamlined governance while the most vulnerable are silenced. We are not witnessing the breakdown of democracy. We are watching its replacement take hold. The structures are not crumbling. They are hardening into something else.

The question is not whether this system can be reformed. The question is whether we still believe in human dignity. Once we accept that people can be governed as if they were inventory, we lose the foundation of any just society. Captivity cannot coexist with freedom. Coerced labor cannot be justified by legal nuance. Efficiency cannot excuse the erosion of humanity.

We must stop pretending that detention is about justice. We must recognize that captivity is not a safety measure but a business model. The only way forward is to reject the logic that reduces people to mere capital. We must build a system rooted in shared dignity, not extracted labor. We are not assets to be managed. We are not lines in someone else’s budget. We are the conscience of this nation, and we are not for sale.