In negotiation literature, culture has been framed as part of the invisible architecture that shapes negotiations, determining how actors communicate and resolve conflict. By positing culture as fixed, negotiation scholarship has too often reified difference instead of analysing how meaning is produced through interaction. As a result, there is an overwhelming amount of literature that explains behaviour through static cultural categories, leaving lived, relational and political processes underexamined. Brigg and Muller (2009) and Bülow and Kumar (2011) argue that culture should not be merely described as a variable that rests in the background but as something continually created and contested through negotiation. Their work successfully redirects attention from culture as a measured variable used to differentiate actors towards an understanding that is formed through interaction. By shifting normative understandings of culture, we are setting it free to constantly renegotiate power and meaning while evolving throughout time and space. This essay examines Durate’s (2009) case of the Greenery Program of Belo Horizonte and the jeitinho brasilerio, which refers to the practice of navigating social interactions through discretion, reciprocity and personal connection. Jeitinho is not a timeless national trait; instead, it is a dynamic practice that gains meaning through moral reasoning and situational constraints. It transforms into a negotiation mechanism amid institutional pressure, wherein trust and authority are re-established through informal relationships. The paper is divided into four sections. It begins with a brief overview of traditional conceptualisations of culture and its veer towards essentialism. Brigg and Müller (2009) are then used to demonstrate how the authority of the analyst can still be prioritised even in “interpretive” work. Bülow and Kumar (2011) introduce “transaction culture”, whereby negotiations create their own transient norms. Finally, it applies these ideas to Duarte’s circumstances to show how budgetary restrictions, bureaucratic hold-ups, and unequal access to relationships result in jeitinho. Culture is something that negotiators create and debate in real time, not something we can treat as a static variable sitting behind the interaction.

Theoretical Background

Culture exists on many levels, although in the field of negotiation, national culture is the prominent lens it is studied, even when it risks grouping within-country variation and treating nations as coherent cultural units (Boothby, Cooney, & Schweitzer, 2023, pp. 317-318). Hofstede’s logic is a classic example of this outdated definition of culture as “the collective programming of the mind” that distinguishes one group from another (1984, p. 81). Under this definition, culture is positioned as an internalised set of values shared by members of a group, producing systematic differences in communication styles, essentially a shared cognitive “program” produced by socialisation within different groups of a nation. This approach created a measurable structure for negotiators to anticipate communication style and bargaining behaviours when engaging with those from different cultures. Here, national culture is treated as the main explanatory variable. Critics deem this impression as essentialism, the idea that members of a group share a relatively uniform cultural “essence” that explains their behaviour.

Brigg and Muller (2009) push the bounds of negotiation literature further when they move away from definitional debates of culture towards an examination of how culture is constituted and mobilised within analytical frameworks. At the centre of their critique is Kevin Avruch’s (1998) interpretive approach towards culture. His work represents a clear advance over positivist and behaviouralist models by rejecting national homogeneity and emphasising culture as a set of meanings that individuals use to make sense of situations (Avruch, 1998, pp. 17-20). Moreover, underlines the uniqueness of individuals and emphasises that no population can be reduced to represent a cultural whole, as culture is “psychologically and socially distributed,” unevenly shared across subgroups and individuals (Avruch, 1998, pp. 18). However, Brigg and Muller (2009) argue that Avruch creates a paradox between “scientific” or experience-distant uses of culture and “political” or experience-near uses mobilised by conflict parties themselves (Brigg & Muller, 2009, pp. 124-126). While intended to guard against the strategic manipulation of cultural claims, this distinction risks re-privileging Western social science as the legitimate ruler of cultural meaning, thereby reproducing colonial hierarchies of knowledge production (Brigg & Muller, 2009, pp. 127-130). The issue here is that Avruch posits the idea that an analysis is able to stand outside of politics, which obscures the fact that socio-scientific knowledge of culture is itself culturally and historically situated (pp. 130-132). Thus, Brigger and Muller warn that interpretive approaches that aim to be culturally sensitive have the potential to inadvertently devalue difference by subordinating lived cultural meanings to expert interpretation through epistemological privilege.

In an effort to move beyond this impasse, Brigg and Muller consider Ernesto Laclau’s concept of the “empty signifier”, which views culture as a category that is fundamentally incomplete due to culture’s constant evolving nature, but is still politically powerful (Brigg & Muller, 2009, pp. 132-134). Imagining culture as an empty signifier allows for the process through which meaning is continually “filed in” through interactions, instead of assuming culture exists as a stable object awaiting interpretation (pp. 134-136). In doing so, scholars are able to value cultural difference without reifying it or claiming authoritative knowledge over it.

This analysis aligns with Bülow and Kumar’s (2011) argument that negotiations generate a temporary “transaction culture,” in which meaning is produced through interaction as parties negotiate norms, expectations, and power relations (Bülow & Kumar, 2011, p. 355). This perspective allows informal practices and relational ties to be analysed as constitutive of the negotiation itself, rather than as external cultural influences. This scholarship shows that cultural practices operate as power resources that negotiators mobilise to shape outcomes, not as a static context sitting behind the interaction. However, from a Brigg and Muller perspective, this framework can still make a mistake by treating culture primarily as an analytical construct rather than interrogating the politics of how cultural meaning is constituted and legitimised.

Duarte’s (2006) investigation into the Brazilian jeitinho provides a great starting point for how culture should and should not be analysed. Jeitinho is widely accepted to be a tactical mode of relations problem-solving, allowing actors to move through the bureaucratic rigidity through personal charm, reciprocity, and flexible interpretations of rules (pp. 54-56). Therefore, jeitinho is a way to influence that relies on culturally recognised norms of empathy. On the one hand, Duarte falls into essentialist fallacies when she describes jeitinho as a “culturally sanctioned” practice and notes it is often perceived as “essentially” Brazilian, listing traits such as creativity, informality, personalism, and ambiguity (Duarte, 2006, p. 512). On the other hand, Duarte’s explanation is strongly contextual and institutional. She links jeitinho to historical legacies of Portuguese legalism and highly formal social relations, alongside personalism and patrimonial arrangements that make rule-following rigid and slow (Duarte, 2006, pp. 512-513). Drawing on Crozier, she shows how bureaucracies inevitably generate “areas of uncertainty” because formal rules cannot cover every situation, creating space for informal bargaining and discretionary problem-solving (Duarte, 2006, p. 516).

The Greenery Program

Durate’s (2006) study examines jeitinho in the Greenery program, a sustainability partnership in Belo Horizonte involving the municipal government (Prefeitura), the environmental NGO Verde, and four community groups (2006, pp. 517-519). This Program was set up in an effort to curb the socio-environmental problems, such as pollution, ill-health, lack of educational opportunities, unemployment, and landslides that usually impact residents of the dwellings. Established in 1995, the Greenery Program is a tri-partnership set up to provide residents with skills to combat the aforementioned socio-environmental challenges. The Prefeitura managed and controlled funds, Verde provided technical expertise and teachers to run courses for the four Greenery services. The objectives were to promote socio-environmental and cultural development, raise awareness for sanitation and environmental issues, provide nutrition education, support local projects targeting such issues and enhance the participation of community groups in the management of public policies.

At the outset of the program, regular environmental education and ‘agro-ecological’ techniques workshops ran. However, between 1999-2002, only limited activities were offered due to insufficient funds for teachers’ salaries, leading to the exit of Verde (Durate 2006, p. 519). In the socio-historical and economic backdrop, Brazil was facing a R$305 billion deficit in 1998, which led to a R$8.7 billion budget cut, which targeted social programs like Greenery. From an allocation of funds totalling $400,00 per annum to a reduction to R$50,000, the program was only able to continue with a fraction of their initiatives, which led to the increase of jeitinhos as described by Durate’s (2006) interview stories.

Enter Mauricio, a worker eager to continue the argo-ecological workshops. After he forwarded his concerns to the divisional manager and was turned down, he turned to informal social mechanisms to achieve his desired outcome as he “couldn’t let the communities down” (p. 520). The person who managed the NGO funding was his childhood friend and proposed an exchange: a reduction in workshop fees for some free lectures for Verde on project management that Mauricio taught. This was done covertly without the knowledge of the Prefeitura.

Another story looks at Osvaldo, the clerical officer shares the struggle of getting petty cash to buy small items. The system was complex, time-consuming, and left staff without their work coffees. However, through informal networks, Osvaldo knew the owner of the local shop, and he was comfortable enough to request that the payment for the coffee be paid at a later date while still being able to access, before the funds from the Prefeitura came. Again, trust was incremental in this arrangement that linked them together through their shared frustration among workers was the rigid and complex bureaucracy. Once again, the formal rules were broken and done without the knowledge of the prefertura, which allowed them to circumvent the system and maintain the flow of work.

The Case & Theory

The Greenery Program illustrates how cultural contexts can be better analysed as something produced and mobilised in negotiations. Duarte (2006) describes Greenery as a tripartisanship, which is a formal arrangement assumed to be stable with institutional cooperation and reliable funding. However, these conditions did not hold and when activities were cut due to wider fiscal tightening, including a large deficit and major budget cuts that hit social programming (Duarte, 2006, p. 519). Put simply, the “negotiation environment” changed materially, and so did what it became rational and possible to do. Bülow and Kumar’s (2011) “transient mini-cultures” explains what manifested in negotiations, observable through the evolving relational dynamics between Prefeitura, Verde, and the community groups. Actors did not act according to stable national values; they adapted their behaviour to evolving constraints. As municipal funding tightened and administrative delays increased, obligations, practices and the expectations of relationships changed. Negotiation interactions began to posit the characterisation of an emerging transaction culture that changed to be characterised by its own norms and expectations shaped by power relations (2011, p. 355). As administrative delays increased and decision-making authority became fragmented, informal negotiations stepped up to bridge the gap left by bureaucratic rigidity.

Duarte’s cases show this interactional culture being assembled story by story. Mauricio, trying to keep agro-ecological workshops running after being refused through formal channels, relies on a childhood friendship with the person managing NGO funding and arranges an off-the-books exchange to reduce workshop fees in return for lectures he provides on project management (Duarte, 2006, p. 520). Osvaldo, blocked by petty-cash procedures, uses his relationship to obtain coffee on informal credit until funds arrive (Duarte, 2006, p. 522). These are negotiations, but not in the narrow sense of formal bargaining at a table. They are ongoing micro-settlements over resources, obligations, and legitimacy under institutional stress.

Duarte’s historical account of this interpretation by situating jeitinho as an adaptive response to excessive formalisation and patrimonial bureaucracy and not a cultural idiosyncrasy (2006, pp. 512-514). When formal procedures are slow, impersonal or do not respond, actors seek alternative pathways to achieve their goals. Drawing on Crozier’s theory of bureaucracy, Duarte shows how rigid systems inevitably generate “areas of uncertainty” where discretion and informal negotiation become possible and necessary (2006, p. 516). In the Greenery Program, these areas of uncertainty expanded as institutional support weakened, increasing reliance on informal negotiation practices. Mauricio’s story aligns well with this dynamic present as well in Rosenn’s (1971, p. 516) ‘institutional by-pass’ whereby an actor takes actions out of their mandate due to their judgement that formal norms are unrealistic and unfairly disadvantage the community (Rosenn, 1971, cited in Duarte, 2006, p. 516). Therefore, this was not opportunistic behaviour but a moral judgement rooted in responsibility toward the community. This demonstrates the significance of social capital as a function as a form of leverage in negotiations.

Briggs and Muller’s critique is important in this analysis as it pushes observers to interrogate how jeitinho is being made meaningful in the analysis. A reminder of their central warning that even interactive approaches can reproduce epistemological hierarchy if the analyst treats culture as something definable. This is relevant to this Durate’s case since she frames jeitinho as perceived “essentially” Brazilian and enumerates characteristic traits (Duarte, 2006, p. 512). In the same token, Amando and Vinagre Brasil also describe a distinctive “Brazilian cultural being” whilst also emphasising socio-historical and institutional conditions (Amado & Vinagre Brasil, 1991, p. 39). Notably, a Brigg and Muller reading arguably does not require discarding these authors; it requires treating their cultural labels as part of the politics and meaning-making, not as neutral descriptions.

Brigg and Muller (2009) contend that culture can function as an incomplete signifier whose content is continually filled in through contestation and practice (Brigg & Muller, 2009, pp. 131-136). On this notion, jeitinho is not a fixed national essence but a concept whose meaning is assembled in interaction and retrospectively stabilised through storytelling. In Greenery, what qualifies as jeitinho is filled in through concrete exchanges and the morals attached, and the relations of trust that make them feasible (Duarte, 2006, pp. 520-522). Cultural signifier is a great framework that allows scholars to analyse cultural dynamics without enforcing a definition and making a claim to facts.

Moreover, simpatia plays a major role as an interaction resource. Warmth, empathy and charm are said to facilitate trust-building in contexts where formal authority lacks credibility (Duarte 2006, pp. 511-512). These qualities help negotiations flow by reducing confrontation and maintaining relational continuity. Simpatia is not merely “Brazilian warmth,” but a way of generating affinity and smoothing risky exchanges where formal enforcement is unreliable (Duarte, 2006, p. 509). This case also emphasises power relations within negotiations. Informal power accrued to those with dense relational networks, while actors lacking these social ties were paralysed by bureaucratic inertia. This reflects a shift in authority from formal institutions to an interpersonal system of trust, as institutional legitimacy in Brazil had eroded. When Verde withdrew due to the lack of funds and formal coordination collapsed, parallel trust networks sustained program activities through diffuse reciprocity, captured in the logic that “today it is his turn; tomorrow it will be mine” (Duarte, 2006, p. 511). Negotiation power flowed not from hierarchical positions, but from the relationships that maintain the system. This case demonstrates how cultural practices evolve in response to institutional failure. As trust in the formal system declined, trust was reconstituted at the interpersonal level. This dynamic aligns with Bülow and Kumar’s emphasis on negotiation as an adaptive process shaped by shifting power relations and situational constraints. Culture does not automatically equate to a predetermined set of behaviours; culture is produced through the negotiation itself.

The Field of Negotiation

This analysis provides valuable lessons for the study of negation as a field through its challenge of traditional ways of understanding culture. It critiques the overreliance on cross-cultural models that treat culture as a stable and national-level variable. Negotiation behaviour cannot be adequately explained through national traits alone, as seen in the Greenery case. Significant attention must be paid to how cultural practices emerge from institutional contexts, power asymmetries and international processes. The case supports a shift toward process-oriented approaches that conceptualise negation as a place of cultural production.

As Brigg and Muller (2009) caution, this tendency to reduce culture to a certain way of being misses the complexity of culture. Negotiation scholarship must not only recognise that culture is dynamic, but also interrogate who gets to define culture and how these definitions travel through research and practice (Brigg & Muller 2009, pp. 130-132). Bülow and Kumar’s (2011) framework of “transaction cultures” is an important step in this direction because it highlights how each negotiation generates its own temporary norms and expectations (p. 355). Notably, through Brigg and Muller’s lens, this framework remains incomplete if it treats these microcultures purely as analytical findings rather than as contested meanings co-constituted by both participants and observers. Recognising culture as a continually “filled in” signifier (Brigg & Muller, 2009, pp. 132-134) encourages negotiation scholars to study not only what practices emerge during interaction, but also how those practices come to be labelled and legitimised as “cultural.”

The Greenery case demonstrates that negotiation practices such as jeitinho and simpatia are not fixed cultural artefacts but situated repertoires that acquire meaning through performance and recognition. When institutional credibility eroded, actors negotiated new forms of trust and power through interpersonal ties and moral reasoning rather than through national values or formal authority (Duarte, 2006, pp. 511-520). For negotiation research, this means culture should be treated as a relational process that both reflects and reorganises power within interaction. Negotiation research must therefore take informal practices seriously as constitutive elements of governance rather than as marginal or pathological phenomena.

Additionally, this study points to conceptualisations of power and trust as areas for negotiation scholars to consider. Informal negotiations redistribute power toward actors with relational capital, reshaping who can act, decide, and influence outcomes. Trust becomes a negotiated resource rather than an institutional guarantee. By foregrounding these dynamics, the field can move toward more realistic and ethically attentive accounts of how negotiation operates in contexts of institutional fragility.

Conclusion

In conclusion, this essay has argued that the Greenery Program is helpful because it illustrates how cultural meaning is created under constraint rather than because it reveals a stable “Brazilian negotiation style.” According to Brigg and Müller, culture cannot be viewed as a neutral background or a fixed essence. Through this difficult process, actors negotiate what behaviour is acceptable, whose interpretations are significant, and how authority is acknowledged. This change is significant because it compels negotiation research to look at its own categories rather than just the actions of others. This is made tangible by Duarte’s description of Jeitinho. Informal interactions and relational bargaining in the Greenery Program go beyond merely expressing predetermined national values. They arise as useful reactions to fragmented decision-making, bureaucratic rigidity, and delayed funding. Actors use reciprocity, trust, and personal ties to continue their work when official channels fail. In this sense, jeitinho functions as a sort of informal negotiation that illustrates how formal authority can be rendered obsolete in day-to-day governance while redistributing power to individuals who possess relational capital. These practices’ analytical significance is explained by the notion of “transaction culture” put forth by Clow and Kumar. The norms that shape Greenery’s coordination are not wholly imported from “Brazilian culture.” They are assembled through interaction as parties alter constraints and expectations. However, Brigg and Müller’s criticism is still a cautionary tale, if jeitinho is viewed as a fixed cultural object rather than a label whose meaning is continuously filled in and stabilised through storytelling, scholarship, and practice, even process-oriented accounts may revert to reification. The wider implication is that culture should be analysed as power-laden meaning-making within negotiation itself rather than as a variable to be controlled in negotiation research. By doing this, a more realistic explanation of how rules are broken or rewritten, how trust is developed, and how informal practices can sustain collective action when institutions are unable to do so is made possible.

Reference List

Amado, G., & Vinagre Brasil, H. (1991). Cultural aspects of negotiations: The Brazilian way. International Studies of Management & Organization, 21(3), 38–52.

Avruch, K. (1998). Culture and conflict resolution. United States Institute of Peace Press.

Boothby, E. J., Cooney, G., & Schweitzer, M. E. (2023). Embracing complexity: A review of negotiation research. Annual Review of Psychology, 74, 299–332.

Brigg, M., & Muller, K. (2009). Conceptualising culture in conflict resolution. Journal of Intercultural Studies, 30(2), 121–140.

Bülow, A. M., & Kumar, R. (2011). Culture and negotiation. International Negotiation, 16, 349–359. https://doi.org/10.1163/157180611X592905

Duarte, F. (2006). Exploring the interpersonal transaction of the Brazilian jeitinho in bureaucratic contexts. Organization, 13(4), 509–527. https://doi.org/10.1177/1350508406067003

Hofstede, G. (1980). Culture’s consequences: International differences in work-related values. Sage.

Hofstede, G. (1984). Cultural dimensions in management and planning. Asia Pacific Journal of Management, 1(2), 81–99.

In a bold attempt to predict what the future holds in political science, I have fallen upon dataism. I argue that dataism is the new ‘-ism’ that is prevailing through capitalism and liberalism to form dataism, an ideology that explains the infiltration of technology into our belief systems, institutions, norms, values and culture. In this reality, humans are ruled by decision-making algorithms.

This paper utilises Yuval Noah Harari’s concept of “Dataism,” as explored in Homo Deus: A Brief History of Tomorrow (Harari, 2017), to examine how algorithmic systems and global data infrastructures have already begun to shape power and legitimacy. While Harari describes Dataism as an emerging “data religion,” I argue that it has already transitioned from a belief to a general consensus. What once guided human judgment is now taking its place, as algorithms increasingly decide outcomes in governance, finance, and everyday life.

This paper argues that dataism is no longer a nascent ideology, it is already operating as a legitimating system that reorganises sovereignty and labour through machine authority. Crucially, it does not govern by persuasion or belief, it governs by default. Capitalism and liberal democracy still exist, but they now run on top of dataism’s logic until eventually dataism takes over.

This raises the central puzzle of this paper: whether technological change is giving rise to dataism, and if so, what humans should really be worried about as algorithms begin to shape our reality.

This paper begins by giving a brief overview of the historical trend associated with humanities’ obsession with efficiency, which has given rise to dataism. Second, it conceptualises dataism as an operating-system ideology that reorders sovereignty, labour, and meaning. Third, it evaluates two counterarguments, dataism as merely Capitalism 2.0 and liberal democracy’s ongoing regulatory resilience, using the United States and European Union as comparative cases. Finally, it considers what this shift means for the global order and argues that the humanities remain essential for protecting human agency and political diversity in an age shaped by algorithms.

Historical Trend

For the Enlightenment, it was humanism. For the industrial age, capitalism. For the age of data flows, dataism.

Harari argues that humanity has evolved from “famine, plague, and war” towards a condition in which the optimisation becomes the moral pursuit (Harari 2017, pp. 214–224). Under this view, the drive to enhance life via data processing invites techno-religions such as dataism to introduce new commandments to “connect everything” and “maximise information flow” (Harari 2017, pp. 221–224).

The issue is that political processing is being outrun by technological acceleration leaving a structural gap between fast-moving code and biotech, and slow, retrospective institutions. As seen with government slow bureaucratic systems, which rely on rigid hierarchies and rule-based procedures that limit flexibility, innovation, and timely decision- making in the face of rapid technological and societal change (Waza 2025, p. 356).

This rapid transition means that the internet’s core rules were never democratically voted upon. Constitutional choices were largely set by engineers and executive policy, not parliaments. For example, Postel’s RFC 1591 (1994) delegated the naming of domains, a core part of the internet’s governance, which was shaped by private actors like engineers. Additionally, the U.S. “Framework for Global Electronic Commerce” (1997) set a free-market approach for online trade (U.S. Department of Commerce, 1997). These choices created governance through private decisions on technology, without democratic debate. As Lessig (2000, p. 123) “code is law” describes how technological design choices can quietly reallocate power by regulating behaviours similarly to law. In that sense, the political foundation for dataism was laid decades ago. The logic of governance shifted from public deliberation to technical management. When digitalisation went ahead of politics, optimisation became not only an economic goal but a moral one.

What the Shift Is and Why It Matters

Harari (2017) defines Dataism as a worldview that treats the flow of information as the highest value, even above human experience (pp. 221–229). Like a religion, its “commandments” are to connect everything to the system and to remove hurdles that block data circulation. Harari calls this a techno-religion that puts data flow above human judgment and aims to link people, organisations, and devices into an internet of all things under a “freedom of information” doctrine (Harari 2017, pp. 221–224). As this worldview spreads, authority migrates from “follow your feelings” to “trust the algorithm,” a shift Harari frames explicitly as the relocation of decision-making from humans to computational systems (Harari, 2017, p. 229).

This shift is visible everywhere. Governments use predictive policing and risk-based welfare systems; banks rely on credit algorithms; hiring platforms screen workers automatically. Human discretion has not disappeared, but it is increasingly shaped by machine recommendations. As Harari warns, the threat of automation is not unemployment, it is irrelevance (Harari, 2018, p. 42).

Counterpoint A, Capitalism 2.0

A materialist counterargument would insist that “dataism” is actually a weaponised logic for capitalistic accumulation and is not an ideologically distinct phenomenon. On this notion, “maximising information flow” and “trusting the model” are justificatory language for capitalistic institutions’ extraction of human experiences as raw material to sell predictions and influence at scale. Zuboff labels the underlying business logic of surveillance capitalism “a new economic order that claims human experience as free raw material,” organised around extraction and behavioural modification (Zuboff 2019, p. 7). This forms a “rogue mutation of capitalism” (Zuboff 2019, p. 8), data is extracted from every human action, repackaged as behavioural predictions, and sold to shape future behaviour.

Additionally, Nick Srnicek’s (2017) account of platforms that act like a core-periphery system, whereby the core benefits from the centralised data’s powerful networks, which are transformed into a winner-take-all position and dependencies. Those in supporting, adjacent fields such as app developers, sellers, advertisers, and workers, are forced to operate under the rules and norms of the system. Henry Farrell and Abraham Newman’s (2019) theory of “weaponised interdependence” explores these structural relationships through an International Relations lens. They stipulate that within networked systems, there are central actors that observe activity and have the power to control access, called the “panopticon” and “chokepoint” effect**.** Essentially, “dataism” claims are better explained by capitalistic forces already well known to society, such as enclosing resources, extracting profit, and controlling key digital hubs in unequal networks.

Consider the United States, where the computing capacity needed for large-scale AI is concentrated in the hands of only a few big companies. Training and running advanced AI models requires powerful chips and the technical ability to use them at a massive scale. Big cloud corporations like Alphabet, Microsoft and Amazon offer this service through their own integrated systems. Since they control these computing hubs, they effectively decide entry barriers, who can build leading AI models, when, and at what cost, compounding dependency. In Farrell and Newman’s terms, this is classic hub power where the companies at the centre of the network can both watch and shut others out (2019, pp. 45–46).

Tech Leaders — Figure 1. Tech industry figures, including Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos attending the inauguration of U.S. President Donald Trump, Washington, D.C., January 20, 2017 (Associated Press, 2016).

The U.S regulatory nature is notorious for failing to take a proactive approach with big tech firms in the pocket of governments, creating an oligarchical-esque system. This reasoning is evident in their absence of a federal privacy statute, depending instead on a fragmented array of sector-specific laws and state regulations. This poses a dangerous interference that firms are allowed to repurpose data with little resistance. Zuboff’s analysis fits this system as platforms capture behavioural data first, and address issues of consent or fairness later (2019, chs. 4–5). Even when firms are held accountable, remedies barely touch the surface of the problem, maintaining the underlying structure intact.

Furthermore, it is plausible to say that platform work and the gig economy have transformed labour to reflect intensified capitalism. The International Labour Organisation (ILO) has deemed that digital labour powered by the gig economy is characterised by unstable pay, constant algorithmic monitoring, and little protection, precarity built into the system (ILO 2021, chs. 2–3). As Kenney and Zysman emphasise, platforms centralise data and control market access, shifting power upward to those who own the networks (2016, pp. 61–68). Zuboff’s “behavioural surplus” describes workers being data mined, and in return, workers are met with unstable conditions (2019, p. 8). Arguably, this system runs on incentives and data, not on belief in any “dataist” values.

Counterpoint B, Liberal-Democratic Resilience

A second counterargument to Harari’s thesis that dataism will replace liberalism is that liberal democracy is not collapsing but adapting. The claim that authority is migrating irreversibly to algorithms neglects the political resilience of liberal institutions’ historical capacity to absorb disruptive technologies and enforce human oversight. Unlike the U.S, the European Union’s General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR, Regulation (EU) 2016/679) demonstrates how data governance can successfully incorporate a rights-based framework. For example, Article 22 of the GDPR affirms a citizen’s right “not to be subject to a decision based solely on automated processing,” prioritising human review.

Subsequently, the Artificial Intelligence Act (Regulation (EU) 2024/1689) prohibits manipulative or exploitative AI, such as real-time biometric surveillance and systems scoring citizens’ behaviour (Art. 5). The Act’s Recital 15 outlines the necessity of these restrictions to preserve “human agency and oversight” in an environment increasingly mediated by autonomous decision systems.

This approach reflects what certain academics refer to as digital constitutionalism, extending the liberal principles of rights and equity into the digital domain. As seen in the 2022 Declaration on Digital Rights and Principles for the Digital Decade, which describes technology as “people-centred,” enforcing democratic values instead of market imperatives (European Commission, 2022). Habermas (1987) argues that political legitimacy comes from open dialogue and shared reasoning, not simply from systems that run efficiently (pp. 305– 309). The EU’s rhetoric of “trustworthy AI” and “human-centred design” echoes that philosophy. In Nye’s (2010) terms, the EU exercises cyber soft power, shaping global norms by setting standards others must follow (pp. 6–8).

The “Brussels Effect” demonstrates this normative power complex nicely, whereby foreign firms, even non-EU states, were compelled to incorporate AI and privacy standards to gain market access in Belgium (Siegmann & Anderljung, 2022). Contrary to Harari’s understanding that dataism is an unstoppable force that transcends politics, the EU demonstrates that politics can control the algorithmic order. Following this line of argument, dataism is not taking over; liberal democracy is correcting itself, adapting to the changing technical landscape by negotiating its social contract with technology, enforcing ethics to be considered with efficiency, and ensuring that data flows remain subordinate to human judgment.

Theoretical Response

This section defends my core claim that dataism already functions as a legitimating ideology in international politics. Constructivism affirms that International Relations ideas are significant when they shape actors’ norms, leading authority to migrate when decision-makers internalise “trust the algorithm” and redesign institutions around the frictionless circulation and processing of information (Harari 2017, p. 218**).** Harari describes this as the point where decision-making shifts from people to computational systems (Harari 2017, p. 229).

In constructivist terms, if policymakers increasingly treat “good governance” as data- driven optimisation, then dataism has become a governing norm that structures practice precisely in the form of ideational authority, my thesis claims.

Zuboff’s idea of “surveillance capitalism” highlights that the language of optimisation makes data extraction seem natural by turning human experience into “free raw material” for prediction markets (2019, p. 8). The economic motive is not denied, instead, consider how the dataist language of efficiency, optimisation, and frictionless flow creates a normative cover, making these systems appear legitimate. Entertaining this line of thought where “code is law,” authority is justified by the assumption that the best model, trained on the most data, deserves to decide. This move is ideological because it turns technical advantage into a moral right, giving control to those who own the infrastructure while making their power appear as a technical necessity.

In the United States (U.S) case, control over cloud and compute gives firms real gatekeeping power. What makes model-based decisions widely accepted is not only economic pressure, but the belief that algorithmic outputs are more objective, accurate, and rational. This reflects dataism’s core hierarchy of legitimacy, where authority follows data. Even in labour management, optimisation is justified through metrics, dashboards, and “evidence-based” efficiency, while the opacity workers face is treated as normal rather than problematic (ILO, 2021). In this sense, Capitalism 2.0 does not replace Dataism, but it relies on dataism’s moral logic to justify itself. Accumulation continues, but the language that makes it appear natural is ideological.

In response to Counterpoint B, the EU section gives concrete examples of legal reforms that prove liberal institutions can reform algorithmic authority. However, I argue that the very grammar of these reforms confirms dataism’s intrinsic presence. The EU doesn’t reject algorithmic governance; it accepts that it will be used and regulates it. The AI Act classifies systems by risk and requires transparency, data controls, and monitoring (Arts. 9–15, 61–70). Habermas reminds us that legitimacy is derived from public justification, not just technical performance (1987, pp. 305–309). That is why the EU promotes “trustworthy AI” to secure democratic acceptance rather than to reject algorithms. In Nye’s terms, this is norm-setting as cyber power, where EU standards spread globally through the “Brussels Effect” (Nye 2010, pp. 6–8). Yet the very fact that these norms take the form of risk management shows the deeper pattern. Dataism defines the terrain, and liberalism shapes the limits. Additionally, liberal democracies risk re-legitimising algorithmic governance under the guise of oversight without addressing deeper power imbalances of data ownership.

Two Articles make this clear. First, GDPR Article 22 permits exceptions such as contract necessity or explicit consent (Art. 22(2)), which means automated decisions have expanded under procedural safeguards, not been eliminated. Second, the AI Act only has a few direct bans as its main strategy lies in oversight, documentation, and monitoring. In both cases, liberal democracy re-legitimises algorithmic authority by placing it inside due-process frameworks. This is adaptation, not rejection, and the very need for such safeguards shows that algorithmic governance is already the default to which politics must react.

Constructivism tells us to watch for practice-constituting ideas, while critical theory tells us to follow how infrastructures and expert vocabularies sediment those ideas into power. In tandem, the counterarguments can reinforce, rather than overturn, the thesis.

Implications for Global Order

Harari cautions that as algorithms surpass humans in prediction and decision tasks, many people risk drifting into what he calls a “useless class.” This does not mean they are economically worthless, but that they no longer hold recognised roles within systems that assign value through data-based contribution (Harari 2018, pp. 40–45). The insecurity here is not only material, it is a loss of social meaning and place. At the same time, the individuals who design and calibrate algorithmic systems form a new knowledge elite, shaping what is considered rational, efficient, or true. Sovereignty begins to shift into the realm of interpretation, where power rests in deciding which information counts and how it is understood.

For the Global South, the stakes are higher. Couldry and Mejias describe this dynamic as data colonialism, where everyday life is captured as data while economic value accumulates elsewhere (2018, pp. 1–2). If core AI models continue to rely on data drawn from global populations but are trained and monetised in cloud systems owned by Northern firms, the political economy of the 19th century returns in digital form, extraction at the periphery, capitalisation at the core. States of the Global South, such as Brazil, India, and South Africa, to assert data sovereignty through local storage rules, open-source procurement, or South-South cloud collaborations show an awareness of this problem. However, without domestic computing capacity, skilled labour, and research ecosystems, this sovereignty remains merely symbolic.

The emerging global order shaped by dataism is neither fully liberal nor purely capitalist. It is interconnected, built on specialised expertise and shared infrastructures that most citizens cannot see or influence. The concern here is not a slide into authoritarian rule, but a quieter loss of politics itself, where decisions are treated as optimisation problems and disagreement is seen as inefficiency. In this setting, the humanities become a form of resistance. History, ethics, and interpretation help us ask questions that algorithms cannot answer, like what values are worth protecting, even when they are not efficient?

The direction of the global order will hinge on whether dataism continues as an unexamined default or becomes something we openly debate and shape. The first path leads to governance without politics, and the second offers a chance to rebuild politics for the digital century.

It is here that the humanities return not as nostalgia, but as necessity. If governance drifts toward optimisation-by-default, then the critical role of ethics, history, and interpretative reasoning is to maintain spaces in which political judgment remains possible. The humanities furnish not a romantic defence of the past, but the intellectual practices required to resist the reduction of human beings to data points and outcomes. Politics survives through discourse, and the ability to understand and challenge each other.

Thus, the international relations stakes are clear. Power is increasingly organised through infrastructures of data, legitimacy is increasingly articulated through algorithmic rationality, but meaning and agency depend on humanity’s ability to reflect. The struggle over dataism is not just about who controls data or markets, but about whether politics continues to see human beings as having intrinsic value, rather than as variables to be optimised.

Conclusion

In conclusion, this paper has argued that dataism is not an ideology found in the future; it exists in society today, already embedded in infrastructure, administrative practice, and institutional routines. Harari describes dataism as a worldview that may eventually replace liberal humanism (Harari, 2017, pp. 221–229). Nevertheless, it has already arrived and is embedded within global regulatory environments, data systems and labour practices. It forms how authority is validated through predictive performance, how sovereignty is exercised through ownership of cloud services, AI supply chains and platforms, and how decisions are made through dependence on model outputs. Dataism does not need mass belief to operate. It works by default, built into code, technical standards, procurement rules, organisational metrics, and the everyday procedures of digital governance.

The counterarguments examined reveal important limits and tensions. Capitalism 2.0, as described by Zuboff’s account of surveillance capitalism (2019, p. 7) and Srnicek’s analysis of platform monopolies, explains the material concentration of data power. Whereas liberal- democratic resilience, exemplified by the GDPR and the EU AI Act, demonstrates that democratic institutions retain the capacity to discipline algorithmic authority through human oversight requirements and rights-based constraints (GDPR Art. 22; Regulation (EU) 2024/1689, Arts. 5, 14). Notably, these responses do not overturn dataism, they merely regulate its expression. Even in resistance, the vocabulary remains that of optimisation, proportionality, and system risk, democracy is essentially being translated into the grammar of data governance.

This presents a normative challenge that reaches beyond economics or institutional design. If dataism remains unacknowledged and simply treated as an extension of capitalism or liberalism, we risk reducing politics to optimisation problems, disregarding conversations about values and what a good life should entail. The deepest threat of automation is not unemployment but irrelevance, the erosion of the belief that human judgment matters (Harari 2018, p. 42). It is important not to reject dataism, as such rejection would be both impossible and undesirable in a world that depends on complex informational coordination, but to determine how to domesticate dataism without becoming subordinate to it.

This requires not just powerful and large institutions, but for everybody to know where we currently are, what we would want our future to be and where we are actually going. It compels societies to reflect on how we would like to relate to each other. In doing so, algorithms would replicate the essence of humanity that we could all be content with. Importantly, it requires preserving the humanities, not as cultural decoration, but as the last infrastructure of meaning, the set of practices through which societies ask why something should be done, not just how well it can be optimised. This line of thinking begs another question that could be explored in further literature, the question being not whether dataism can be governed but whether we can remain political subjects while living inside its logic.

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Couldry, N., & Mejias, U. A. (2019). The costs of connection: How data is colonizing human life and appropriating it for capitalism. Stanford University Press.

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AI Declaration:

I declare that no artificial intelligence tools were used in the preparation of this work, with the exception of Zetero for referencing and Grammarly (free basic version) for grammatical corrections. I bear full responsibility for the content of the work.

Our Mining Sector is Changing

How is it changing? Who’s most impacted? And what can you do about it?

Foreign entities have a substantial stake in Australia’s mining sector, controlling 86% of the industry. This includes some companies that many Australians might assume are locally owned. For instance, over three-quarters of BHP’s ownership is foreign, while Rio Tinto has even higher foreign ownership at 83%. These two giants alone represent 70% of the resources held by mining companies listed on the Australian Stock Exchange.

Over the past decade, mining companies have poured over half a billion dollars into lobbying efforts targeting Australian governments. This figure, which exceeds $541 million, only accounts for spending through major industry groups, which are largely controlled by overseas interests. The amount spent on lobbying is likely much higher, as it does not include direct lobbying expenditures by individual mining firms, which aren’t required to be disclosed publicly. This situation raises questions about the influence of foreign interests on Australia’s resource policies and the distribution of benefits from the country’s mineral wealth.

Taxpayers

Australian taxpayers have almost unknowingly lost a minimum of $162.4 million in the past 10 years because of foreign mining industries’ spending on lobbying. This cost does not include the $65 billion a year that Australia subsidises fossil fuels (IMF). Research shows that the Australian government provides massive hidden support to fossil fuels, totalling around $55.6 billion in indirect subsidies. These costs are ultimately paid by citizens through taxes, to cover the damages that come with fossil fuel extraction such as healthcare costs from air pollution and environmental damage including climate change effects. The International Monetary Fund (IMF) has raised concerns that current pricing systems failure to account for these environmental impacts properly, and sometimes do not even cover basic production costs. The health impacts are particularly severe, data from the Institute for Health Metrics and Evaluation shows that air pollution from burning fossil fuels leads to approximately 4.5 million early deaths worldwide each year. Countries like Norway, charge far more for their natural resources, while in Australia we subsidise their extraction.

Australia would be in a dangerous position if we relied on the low-employing, tax-avoiding, high-polluting, and largely foreign-owned mining industry for economic security.

By having politicians in their pockets these mining companies can get tax laws that benefit them rather than the Australian people. The mining industry directly and indirectly abuses its power for private gain, which is the very definition of corruption.

The Australian government successfully recovered $6.4 billion in taxes from big mining and fossil fuel companies last year. This record-breaking collection included major payments from companies like Rio Tinto and Ampol, who had to settle their dodgy tax-avoiding. The ATO has labelled the gas industry in Australia as ‘systemic non-payers of tax’. These are situations that have been caught but the issue seems to be bigger than is seen in the media.
The NSW Independent Commission Against Corruption has said that Australia has directly experienced serious political corruption in the granting of mining licences –recommending prosecutions for misconduct in public office (now underway) against former senior State politicians and the relevant Minister for favouritism in the granting of coal licences.
Santos has been accused of covering up the severity of an oil spill that allegedly killed dolphins off Western Australia (WA) in early 2023. Whistleblower provided picture evidence of dead dolphins near the Santos oil spill and it is said to be internally understood that the deaths were linked to the spill.

Regional Development Australia

Economic modelling commissioned by Regional Development Australia found that reducing the Hunter region’s coal industry would have minimal economic impact. Employment would only decrease by 0-1.2%, while economic output would fall by just 0.2-4%.

Contrary to common belief, expanding coal operations is not vital for the Hunter’s economy. Reducing coal production could benefit the region through improved air quality, better public health, and growth opportunities in other industries while maintaining stable state finances.

The Hunter Valley region despite having green-lit multiple mines, is at risk of suffering the same fate as historical transitional regions. All of Australia’s coal stations will shut by 2038, under the latest market operator projections.

2023 saw the closure of AGL’s Liddell Power plant and the final coal extracted from Muswellbrook Coal after 115 years of operation. BHP has announced the closure of its Mt Arthur coal mine in 2030 and Bayswater is set to close before 2035 as a result of global companies adjusting their portfolios and operations away from fossil fuel and carbon generation.

Australia’s climate policy front is only emphasised by the approval of three coal mine extensions in the Hunter Valley: Whitehaven’s Narrabri Stage 3 Expansion, MACH Energy’s Mount Pleasant Optimisation, and Glencore and Yancoal’s Ashton-Ravensworth Extension. Since labour has come into power 7 new coal mines have been approved. Such projects are forecast to emit over a billion tonnes of pollution in their lifetime, with Mount Pleasant in the Hunter Valley becoming Australia’s largest black coal mine. Such expansions completely undermine the environmental movement and take two steps backwards in terms of energy production and industry shift.

There is a lack of government incentive to support a transition within these regions, effectively leaving communities ‘high and dry’. In the coal town of Muswellbrook, with an increased local coal production of 810 million in coal royalties (2024), there has not been a matching by government bodies to ‘fatten up’ the royalties for rejuvenation fund, a fund that is expected to ease a community transition with a mere 25 million being pledged and minimal conversation surrounding the “toe in the water” commitment to hydrogen within the hunter (Reynolds, Mayor of Muswellbrook).

The mining industry encourages a one foot in one foot out approach to labour and policy which trickles down and impacts the stability of the community. Infrastructure like roads, schools, community centres are all built around the needs of the large percentage of minors who live in Muswellbrook for short periods of time. As a result, those who are not working in the mines often draw the short straw with things like health, environment, and social unity being compromised. Drugs, domestic violence and obesity are also huge problems in Muswellbrook, driven by low socioeconomic conditions.

If the mines generate billions then why isn’t more money funnelled in to the community?

This reflects a larger trend prevalent in the relationship between the domestic and international flux of the mining economy. These mining companies do not have our mining communities in mind. They only care about their private gain and the government has become an extension of that. With no transition in place for these communities set out by the government and no legislation to enforce these companies to take responsibility.

Jobs disappear, tax bases dry up, housing prices collapsed, services erode, and people move away and mines are left open waiting to become a water pit of dangerous chemicals (Macneil, 2021). Economic shocks have even been seen to usher a range of social problems like intergenerational poverty, suicide and substance abuse, increasing problems already all too known in the community (Beer, 2018).

Transition

To combat misfortunes brought by the decline in coal, actors have pushed the notion of ‘just transitions’ (JT) whereby policies targeting to help these regions maintain their social and economic integrity. Initiatives include retraining for displaced workers, early retirement incentives for older workers, laws preventing forced redundancies, and transition programs designed to help families through periods of unemployment (see e.g., Briggs and Mey, 2020; ACTU, 2020; Crawford, 2020; CSIRO, 2019; Government of Queensland, 2021; Government of NSW, 2020). Studies that support this promising idea p .119) to help replace the economic stimulus provided by coal.

As our economy transitions, the Shire is well placed to leverage existing infrastructure, location, industry capability and pioneering spirit to position the region as a key centre of renewable energy production, clean technology, innovation and advanced manufacturing as we move towards a Net Zero economy.

Muswellbrook will lead and enable the delivery of green energy to the grid, through wind and solar projects, the Santos Hunter Gas Pipeline and Pumped Hydro, battery storage and hydrogen generation. The Hunter community is committed to working with Energy Co. to deliver on the Hunter Renewable Energy Zone and with the Department of Regional NSW on the AGL Liddel and Bayswater transition.

A study by MacNeil & Beauman (2022) interviewed 37 workers from Australia’s two largest coal regions – Queensland’s Bowen Basin and New South Wales’ Hunter Valley to uncover what people thought about JT. The most common finding was that JT was a euphemism for job loss with no real plan, driven by outsiders and takes away local autonomy. The research project brought up important principles that need to be addressed to properly move away from coal in a just way.

We have heard your priorities:

Prioritising Local Autonomy
1. Long-term improvements with no dependency on mines/ corporations.
2. There has been positive attitudes to diversifying the economy.
Honest Conversations
A clear, well resourced plan
1. Outline of local and national initiatives
Health of Community and the Environment
1. Working with Australian Indigenous communities

Clear Plan

Future Industries

Mining remains crucial for supplying the minerals needed for clean energy technologies. Australia presents itself as a resource rich nation with an ample extractive economics industry that can be recycled to support an energy transition. The expected demand for mining resources that are required within the sector is predicted to exceed 700 million tonnes annually by 2050.

9 million tonnes of lithium for energy storage
130 million tonnes each of silicon for EVs and copper for wind turbines
48 million tonnes of nickel for batteries

Australia is the world’s largest producer of lithium, third largest producer of cobalt and fourth largest producer of rare earth. By 2030 electric vehicle will represent more than 60 per cent of vehicles sold globally (IEA 2022b). Demand for battery minerals, such as lithium, is forecast to increase by 40 times 2020 levels by 2040, while demand for cobalt and graphite could rise by approximately 20 times. Demand for rare earth elements could increase by seven times in the same period (IEA 2021). More mining is required to meet this demand. Recent analysis by the IEA suggests the world will need around 50 new lithium mines, 60 new nickel mines and 17 new cobalt mines to meet carbon emissions goals by 2030 (IEA 2022a). Showcasing massive potential for industry growth and employability for Australian workers.

Australia had 81 major critical minerals projects in the pipeline as of December 2022, with an estimated value of between $30 billion and $42 billion. This is up from 71 projects and $22 billion to $36 billion in 2021 (DISR 2022). The Australian government has committed $23 billion to boost domestic manufacturing and renewable energy, focusing heavily on critical minerals processing and refining. This investment aims to establish Australia as a global leader in critical minerals production. Thus, the extractive economics that Australia has been built on, need not be cut off drastically, a subtle shift may lay the foundations for a sustainable energy industry to be built upon within Australia.

The critical minerals industry needs many skilled workers and can provide the shift necessary towards renewables from the mining sector. Australia’s resources sector employs more than 290,000 people (ABS 2023) and accounts for 14 per cent of our GDP (Office of the Chief Economist 2022). Emerging critical mineral sectors are the transfusion into a clean energy industry. Independent government modelling found that the increased export from critical minerals could create more than 115 000 new jobs, growing to 262 600 jobs if Australia builds on its downstream refining and processing capabilities. The transitional capabilities for employment from non-renewable mining sectors is vast with clear profession mirroring between industries in terms of exploration, management, engineering, science and trade sectors.

Australia’s critical minerals are imperative to a net-zero transition, they are also imperative to shifting away from an international reliance on clean energy infrastructure and resources. Australian coal mining exports are dependant on buyers like China, but this drastic global shift towards renewables is seeing China expand their own renewables energy sectors and more self-reliant, manufacturing approximately 80% of the world’s solar panels in 2022.

The global community is yearning for critical minerals. The EU energy consumption is rising and in need of politically stable outsourcing of energy. The EU has made available 500 billion AUD of equivalent funding and simplify shortening permitting processes for renewable projects.

The potential for future Australian businesses and ex-non-renewable employees to transition skills is limitless.

Employment

In NSW, we have a wealth of highly skilled tradesmen, engineers and entrepreneurs. The NSW government has created a 2030 renewable energy workforce plan, looking to fulfil Australia’s future energy needs with large investment into electrician and engineering sectors. There are 38 critical employment sectors for a clean energy transition, with all sections relying heavily on overseas employment, engineering boasting over 50% international employment. The clean energy council reports that an increase from 21,500 to 59,300 workers is needed to build and operate the generation, storage and transmission infrastructure required to achieve 82 per cent electricity in the National Electricity Market by 2030. Currently Australia is not investing heavily enough into grassroots clean energy programs, despite having a massively pre-established industrial sector that has been sharped over decades of mineral extraction.

The potential for this highly skilled workforce to transition to clean energy, an industry that is in need of ground up development, is limitless and would ensure the immediate development of a clean energy employment backbone. In 12 regions across Australia, workers make up more than 2% of the local community. Introducing the possibility for a workers void that if not plugged could have drastic socio-economic community effects. Within the upper hunter valley over 11% of the populous is reliant on an extractive and dead industry, but with the skills to industry shift with relative ease. Mining firms are gatekeeping employees and thus, preventing them from expanding into the emerging clean energy sector, which is limiting Australian workers as international specialists ‘snap’ up jobs.

Muswellbrook transition

The Muswellbrook region currently has ‘supposed’ commercial backing for multiple clean energy projects, despite the lack of initiating speed such projects are in the pipeline and will provide jobs in construction and management. At the forefront is the proposed 400 MW 8-hour storage Muswellbrook Pumped Hydro plant is expected to provide power and grid support services at critical times, pumping water uphill when there is excess energy from solar and wind and releasing water to generate power in times of high energy demand.

No other projects are green lit, calling for a community nudge to get more clean energy projects approved in Muswellbrook. By doing so, the town can be kept alive, healthy and be leaders in sustainability.

How Can I Upskill?

There are existing programs for up-skilling. Up-skilling is the process of increasing a potential employees skill set. building on the skills you already possess within the mining sector and shifting them to a more renewable focused skill repertoire. For programs that create jobs see below for local and national:

Unions

Union engagement in Australia has decline significantly, falling from over 50% of the workforce in the 1970s to approximately 15% today. This decline has reduced workers’ collective bargaining power and their representation in workplace negotiations, potentially impacting their ability to advocate for better wages, conditions and protections.

There is currently no dedicated union specifically focused on the renewable energy sector. This gap in specialised representation could affect worker attraction and retention in the growing clean energy industry, particularly as the sector requires unique skill sets and faces distinct workplace challenges. A dedicated clean energy union could potentially help standardise industry practices, advocate for specialised training programs, and ensure fair wages and conditions as the sector expands.

What’s All This All Change About?

Climate change is caused by burning the limited resource of fossil fuels. Climate change is the long-term change in temperatures and weather patterns which scientists agree humans have primarily been responsible for in the last 200 years. The main contributors include the burning of fossil fuels like coal, oil and gas. When fossil fuels are burnt they release what is called greenhouse gas emissions into the air that suffocate the Earth by trapping the sun’s heat and raising temperatures.

Muswellbrook is a pillar of the Australian NSW coal mining sector providing energy to greater NSW for the better part of 3 decades. The effects of climate change continue to knock at the door of this community. With the bushfires of 2023 licking the heels of Muswelbrook, Aberdeen, Scone and the surrounding regions, the increased rate of natural disasters is the symptom of the disease that is Co2 emissions, a disease that is now reaching the industrial organs of the state and the people that embody them.

Severe fires within the hunter region are expected to increase. Fire weather was the strongest determinator of house loss during the black summer bushfires, jeopardising local infrastructure. The 2019 bushfires in south eastern Australia triggered around 65000 displacements and destroying more than 3,100 homes. Under the high emissions scenario, the number of severe fire weather days is expected to double by 2090. The Upper Hunter region saw 22,7000 hectares of the region impact with 15,663 buildings destroyed. The longterm infrastructure effects of fires can result in recovery and rebuilding taking over 2 years.

The direct health impacts saw 2 saw 25 premature deaths, 38 cardiovascular disease and 129 respiratory disease hospitalisations across the region from poor air quality caused by the bushfires in the 2019-2020 season.

Lobbying and How to Do It Effectively

Lobbying involves contacting legislators and convincing them to support or reject policy. Whether you are an individual constituent or an advocacy group, when you meet with representatives in an attempt to elicit a policy change, you are lobbying them. Lobby against fossil fuels means going against the very foundations that much of Australia’s industry was built on. Lobbying with a community lens is far more effective. By utilising Grassroots lobbying you raise awareness about coal and transition issues that your advocacy collective and community wants to rectify and then use this as a channel to influence the lawmakers’ stance.

Your goal is to encourage and enable supporters to reach out to their representatives through email, direct mail, social media, telephone to share their stance on an issue. The best way to do that is through patch-through calls. Patch through calls involves connecting voters with their elected representatives, and thus, pushing and connecting calls between voters and their representatives. Instigating change through the phone line.

Get Involved

There are many ways to support Geophyte’s mission:

Volunteer your skills
Make a donation
Partner with us
Spread awareness about our work

Join us in nurturing the potential within mining-dependent communities, helping them grow strong roots for a sustainable future.

The Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication (SWIFT), headquartered in Belgium, underpins the global financial infrastructure by providing standardised messaging services for over 11,000 financial institutions in more than 200 countries (Eichengreen, 2022). However, SWIFT’s Western-centric governance and its use as a sanctions tool, evident in its role in disconnecting Iranian and Russian banks, has motivated countries like Russia, China, and Iran to create alternative financial messaging systems to reduce their dependence and mitigate sanctions risk (Sullivan, 2022).

SWIFT’s Geopolitical Significance

Although SWIFT does not handle fund transfers itself, it facilitates the communication needed for such transactions. Because of its central role, SWIFT has been leveraged by Western nations, particularly the U.S., to enforce sanctions by excluding adversarial banks (Eichengreen, 2022). This has elevated SWIFT from a neutral platform to a geopolitical lever.

Russia: SPFS and MIR Systems

In response to sanctions following its 2014 annexation of Crimea, Russia developed the System for Transfer of Financial Messages (SPFS), launched by the Central Bank of Russia. Initially limited to domestic transactions, its relevance surged following the 2022 invasion of Ukraine when key Russian banks were cut off from SWIFT (Jamestown Foundation, 2024). By 2024, SPFS was handling nearly 100% of Russian domestic interbank traffic and included over 550 institutions across 20 countries (Bank of Russia, 2023).

Russia also expanded its consumer card network, Mir, as a domestic alternative to Visa and MasterCard. MIR is accepted in a limited number of countries but serves as a critical domestic payment mechanism post-2022 (Jamestown Foundation, 2024).

China: CIPS and RMB Internationalisation

China launched the Cross-Border Interbank Payment System (CIPS) in 2015 to facilitate international RMB settlements and reduce reliance on SWIFT (PBOC, 2023). Unlike SPFS, CIPS combines messaging and settlement and operates under the People’s Bank of China. As of 2023, it included over 1,600 participants worldwide and processed about ¥385 billion (~$46 billion) daily (China Daily, 2023).

However, approximately 80% of CIPS transactions still rely on SWIFT messaging, limiting its independence (Cai, 2022). China’s goal is to make CIPS fully self-sufficient and central to its broader push to internationalise the RMB (IMF, 2023).

Iran: SEPAM and Regional Interlinkages

Iran’s SEPAM system emerged in response to SWIFT expulsion in 2012 and again in 2018. It supports domestic financial messaging and has become more regionally relevant after being integrated into the Asian Clearing Union’s new payment framework in 2023 (The Hindu Business Line, 2023).

In a landmark development, Iran linked SEPAM with Russia’s SPFS, allowing both countries to conduct direct banking communications and settlements outside of SWIFT (Wilson Center, 2023). Iran is also indirectly leveraging CIPS through Chinese banks willing to process RMB transactions under opaque channels.

Comparative Characteristics

Feature	SWIFT	SPFS (Russia)	CIPS (China)	SEPAM (Iran)
Ownership	Member-owned	Russian Central Bank	People’s Bank of China	Iranian Central Bank
Currency Support	Multi-currency	Primarily Ruble	Primarily RMB	Primarily Rial
International Reach	200+ countries	~20 countries	~100 countries	Limited, ACU-focused
Transaction Volume	Trillions daily	Domestic + limited intl.	~$46B/day	Limited
Messaging Format	ISO 20022	SWIFT-compatible	ISO 20022	Proprietary
Sanction Risk	High leverage	High-risk, under OFAC	Low-risk (so far)	High-risk

Legal and Economic Factors Influencing Adoption

Legal deterrents significantly affect SWIFT alternatives. In 2024, the U.S. Treasury’s OFAC warned foreign banks that participation in SPFS could trigger secondary sanctions (OFAC, 2024). Meanwhile, European regulations have also restricted SPFS usage in EU territory (European Council, 2024).

In contrast, CIPS has not been sanctioned and benefits from China’s robust trade relationships. Still, banks fear U.S. retaliation and continue to rely on SWIFT infrastructure. Iran, under the most severe sanctions, has had to adopt bartering, cryptocurrency, and informal channels in addition to SEPAM.

Post-Ukraine Invasion Effects

Russia’s exclusion from SWIFT following the Ukraine invasion tested these systems under real-world pressure. SPFS was rapidly scaled, while Russian exports were increasingly settled in RMB and rupees (Reuters, 2023). Russian FX trading in yuan surged, and bilateral trade with China transitioned significantly to non-dollar currencies. However, these alternatives came with costs. Russia experienced a yuan liquidity crunch in 2023 due to secondary sanctions, bifurcating internal and external exchange markets (Trading Economics, 2023). This example highlights the limits of alternatives when isolated from global liquidity pools.

Potential for SWIFT Alternatives in a Taiwan Scenario

In a hypothetical conflict over Taiwan, China could be sanctioned similarly to Russia. Chinese policymakers have been preparing by expanding CIPS, promoting RMB settlements, and piloting the e-CNY digital currency for cross-border use (Zhou, 2021). Additionally, China has urged BRICS nations to develop a joint financial infrastructure to hedge against Western sanctions (Kazan Declaration, 2024).

Still, CIPS’s limited global adoption and the modest role of RMB (only ~2.3% of global payments in 2023) mean that the economic disruption of losing SWIFT access would be profound (IMF, 2023).

Conclusion

Russia, China, and Iran have developed significant infrastructure to reduce reliance on SWIFT, with varying degrees of success. While these alternatives: SPFS, CIPS, and SEPAM offer partial buffers against sanctions, they cannot fully substitute for the global liquidity and connectivity offered by SWIFT. Their continued evolution will depend on geopolitical alignment, legal constraints, and the broader trend toward financial multipolarity.

References

Aizel, A. (2024, January 19). More than 150 foreign banks connect to Russian alternative to SWIFT. The Jamestown Foundation.
Bank of Russia. (2023). System for Transfer of Financial Messages (SPFS).
Cai, P. (2022, March 3). CIPS cannot rescue Russian banks from SWIFT ban. The Interpreter.
China Daily. (2023, August 17). Yuan settlement system CIPS expands global reach.
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The European Union’s response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has been framed as a necessary acceleration of decarbonisation and diversification away from Russian gas. REPowerEU promises to reduce fossil dependence while securing supply. However, a growing body of critical work argues that the architecture of EU gas governance structurally embeds regulatory capture and conflicts of interest, particularly in the way EU institutions rely on ENTSOG, Gas Infrastructure Europe (GIE) and major operators such as Fluxys for modelling, planning and implementing the liquefied natural gas (LNG) build-out. This essay outlines these system-level critiques, using the US–EU LNG expansion and the case of Zeebrugge as key examples.

A first strand of critique concerns the institutional role of ENTSOG. Under EU law, ENTSOG, a network composed of transmission system operators (TSOs), is tasked with producing the Ten-Year Network Development Plan (TYNDP), which forecasts gas demand and proposes infrastructure projects that then feed into the Commission’s list of Projects of Common Interest (PCIs) eligible for EU funding (Global Witness, 2020). Global Witness shows that ENTSOG’s TYNDP has repeatedly overestimated future gas demand, with forecasts between 2013 and 2019 systematically above realised consumption and above levels compatible with EU climate targets (Global Witness, 2020, pp. 5–7). Because only projects included in the TYNDP can become PCIs, ENTSOG effectively co-defines the menu of gas projects that the Commission can support, while its member companies are also the main beneficiaries of those investments. This is not a marginal issue; between 2013 and 2020, about €4.5 billion in EU funds went to 44 new gas projects, with 90 percent of that funding flowing to ENTSOG member companies (Greenpeace International, 2023b). The result is a structurally conflicted arrangement where the entities that profit from new pipelines and LNG terminals also help determine whether those assets are “needed”.

A second line of critique focuses on how this knowledge monopoly shaped REPowerEU. Corporate Europe Observatory argues that the Commission’s 2022 REPowerEU package reproduced core assumptions promoted by the gas industry, particularly high gas demand scenarios and a strong emphasis on infrastructure solutions, including new LNG terminals, interconnectors and hydrogen-ready pipelines (Corporate Europe Observatory, 2022). Independent modelling cited by NGOs and think tanks suggests that existing pipelines and LNG terminals would have been sufficient to meet demand through at least 2030, even under scenarios with Russian supply disruptions, if combined with ambitious efficiency and renewables deployment (Global Witness, 2020, pp. 6–7). Nevertheless, REPowerEU channelled new public subsidies and fast-track procedures toward additional gas infrastructure, including floating storage and regasification units and terminal expansions. For critics, this illustrates regulatory capture not as bribery but as epistemic dependence, as the Commission relies on data, scenarios and project pipelines produced by entities with a structural interest in keeping gas central to Europe’s energy system.

GIE, the lobby group for gas storage, LNG and transmission operators, plays a complementary role. Its 2022 paper on making REPowerEU “successful with gas infrastructure” explicitly framed new LNG terminals and related assets as indispensable security instruments, just as corporate owners stood to benefit from a wave of “emergency” investments. Corporate Europe Observatory and allied groups argue that this helped tilt political debate toward supply-side responses, while the potential of demand reduction and accelerated electrification was comparatively underplayed (Corporate Europe Observatory, 2022). In this reading, REPowerEU is not simply a neutral response to a crisis but an outcome of a long-standing lobbying infrastructure that positioned gas operators as “technical experts” whose preferred solutions coincidentally secured their own asset base well into the 2030s.

Fluxys and the Zeebrugge LNG terminal offer a concrete illustration of these structural issues in the US–EU LNG context. Fluxys is both an ENTSOG member and a key operator of LNG and pipeline infrastructure in Belgium and beyond (Global Witness, 2020, p. 2). Greenpeace Belgium’s report The LNG Trap documents how Zeebrugge has become the single largest hub for Russian LNG in the EU, handling roughly a quarter of all Russian LNG volumes since 2021, while at the same time importing rising quantities of US LNG (Greenpeace Belgium, 2025, pp. 2–5). Despite the EU’s goal of phasing out Russian fossil fuels, Russian LNG imports through Zeebrugge actually increased in 2022 and 2023, and remained high in 2024–2025, even after a ban on transshipment, because cargoes are regasified and enter the European grid as “European” gas (Greenpeace Belgium, 2025, pp. 3–5).

At the same time, the report shows that European companies have signed a wave of long-term offtake contracts for US LNG, and that a 2025 EU–US trade deal includes a pledge to purchase around 750 billion USD of US energy over three years, including LNG (Greenpeace Belgium, 2025, pp. 3, 6). The combination of persistent Russian LNG flows and locked-in US LNG contracts leads Greenpeace to characterise Europe’s position as one of “dual dependence”: swapping Russian pipeline gas for Russian and US LNG without structurally reducing gas demand (Greenpeace International, 2023a; Greenpeace Belgium, 2025). In this setting, Fluxys benefits from high utilisation and expanded capacity at Zeebrugge and Dunkirk, even as EU climate law implies a rapid decline in gas consumption over the coming decade.

These dynamics are reinforced by a broader pattern of LNG overbuild. Greenpeace’s Who Profits from War notes that in 2022, European LNG regasification capacity was only about 63 per cent utilised, yet numerous new terminals and expansions were announced under the banner of energy security (Greenpeace International, 2023a, pp. iv–v). Global Energy Monitor’s Europe Gas Tracker, cited there, similarly concludes that planned LNG capacity will overshoot plausible demand in a Paris-aligned pathway, creating a risk of stranded assets. From a system-level perspective, this is not an accidental miscalculation but a rational outcome of a governance system in which gas operators design scenarios, propose projects, and then receive EU money to build them.

In conclusion, the critique of regulatory capture in the US–EU LNG build-out rests less on uncovering illegal conduct and more on tracking how institutional design embeds conflicts of interest. ENTSOG’s privileged role in forecasting and planning, GIE’s influence over crisis narratives, and the position of operators like Fluxys at key hubs such as Zeebrugge collectively pull EU energy policy toward continued and expanded reliance on LNG, including from the United States, even as official strategies promise rapid decarbonisation. When infrastructure owners write the scenarios and sit at the planning table, “energy security” can become a code word for securing the value of their own assets rather than aligning with climate and justice goals; thus, REPowerEU illustrates a systemic issue.

References

Corporate Europe Observatory. (2022, May 19). RePowerEU plans misleading and heavily influenced by fossil fuel industry.Nature+7Fossil Free Politics+7European Sources Online+7

Global Witness. (2020). Pipe down: Gas companies’ control over billions in EU funds.Global Witness+2gw.cdn.ngo+2

Greenpeace Belgium. (2025). The LNG trap: Europe’s fossil gas dependence on Russia and the United States.Greenpeace+2Greenpeace+2

Greenpeace International. (2023a). Who profits from war: How gas corporations capitalise on war in Ukraine.Greenpeace+3Greenpeace+3Greenpeace+3

Greenpeace International. (2023b, April 27). Revealed: Gas industry pushing US and Europe into contracts that would roast the planet [Press release].

Hi there, I'm Gabriella

Education

My Work

Skills

Contact

Theoretical Background

The Greenery Program

The Case & Theory

The Field of Negotiation

Conclusion

Reference List

Historical Trend

What the Shift Is and Why It Matters

Counterpoint A, Capitalism 2.0

Counterpoint B, Liberal-Democratic Resilience

Theoretical Response

Implications for Global Order

Conclusion

Reference List

Our Mining Sector is Changing

Taxpayers

Regional Development Australia

Transition

Clear Plan

Future Industries

Employment

Muswellbrook transition

How Can I Upskill?

Unions

What’s All This All Change About?

Lobbying and How to Do It Effectively

Get Involved

SWIFT’s Geopolitical Significance

Russia: SPFS and MIR Systems

China: CIPS and RMB Internationalisation

Iran: SEPAM and Regional Interlinkages

Comparative Characteristics

Legal and Economic Factors Influencing Adoption

Post-Ukraine Invasion Effects

Potential for SWIFT Alternatives in a Taiwan Scenario

Conclusion

References

References