#title What Lessons Can We Learn From the Story of Ted’s Life?
#author Theo Slade
#topics Original Texts
#lang en
#pubdate 2025-04-03T04:27:58
#notes I wrote most of it three years ago as part of writing a critical biography of Ted. However, the biography ballooned into a 1,000-page timeline of his life, packed with block quotes from primary and secondary sources. I got too attached to the each quote as evidence of a frame of mind, so couldn’t nail down how to streamline it.
*** Lifestyle Change
Growing up as an awkward kid, I learned to value the road less traveled and to form my own conclusions about what makes life meaningful. While I hold high ideals, I’m open to a range of tactics—including strategically engaging with political systems I wouldn’t have chosen to exist in their current form.
But I’ve also met people whose childhood experiences of awkwardness and bullying pushed them toward revenge and fanaticism. For them, the perceived impossibility of winning over a majority led to a cold, authoritarian calculus—where they decided whose lives could be discarded for their version of the greater good.
**** Unhealthy outlets
I grew up in a hippie corner of North Wales and, at 17, set off on my own to Earth First Gatherings. From there, I got involved in blocking open-cast coal mine planning applications, opening squatted social centers, and organizing meals to “feed the 5000” with refugees in Calais.
But in that world, I also met a primitivist who had embraced a similarly violent ideology to Kaczynski. After years of feeling lost and disconnected, he died young. That experience drives my interest in studying the ideological rabbit holes that lead people down these paths—and, just as importantly, the best arguments for pulling them out.
Knowing that I was once friendly with someone who went from protesting coal extraction to embracing eco-extremist ideas—and then never found his way back—is deeply unsettling. I can’t help but wish things had turned out differently for him.
Some former anarchists are drawn to Ted’s ideas because they offer a rigid, simplistic way of viewing the world, often leading them to abandon broader struggles. This shift tends to diminish both their own quality of life and the movements they leave behind. I also see parallels between those who move from engaging with diverse anarchist campaigns to focusing almost exclusively on illegalism, propaganda of the deed, and communiqués.
**** Ted’s unhealthy outlet
As a professor at Berkeley during the height of the Vietnam war protests, Kaczynski was very aware of militant campaigns against the draft that even involved bombs going off at universities. He romanticized the anti-hero in Joseph Conrad’s novel The Secret Agent. So, I think he desired to outcompete leftist rebellion with a more all-encompassing ultra-conservative rebellion of needing to return to a medieval era traditional relationship with technology.
I’m very critical of how he thought he could use violence to at first satisfy an internal pain to enact his suffering on others, and then later how he imagined himself a revolutionary.
I think Ted’s difficulty relating to people blinded him to the way a coalition could be built to remediate aspects to the world he grew up in which had harmed him. I think his critique of his wayward followers should also be applied back on him, given his lack of optimism about the possibility of achieving a more ideal society without mass killing and starvation:[1]
Kaczynski condemns ITS and accuses the group of misappropriating his ideas. He hurls the charge of leftism right back at them, along with a diagnosis of learned helplessness: ‘The most important error that ITS commits is that they express, and therefore promote, an attitude of hopelessness about the possibility of eliminating the technological system’. This attitude of hopelessness gives ITS a more vengeful and nihilistic character than Kaczynski himself.
Kaczynski didn’t like mass movements; he had a disgust for the university elite’s ideological disconnect from the world. Had the desire to share with the world some useful philosophical theory and some not so useful action i.e. killing various people identified with technology. Because his childhood was about being forced to conform to an ideal of academic success at the expense of mental health and community, he thought he was only one of few people who had woken up to the downside of this conformity, such that any revolution would need to be carried out by a small vanguard playing off many parties against each other.
But, I think that idea reveals a naivety about human potential and a naive optimism about an elite underclass who will always be willing enough to risk their lives to tear down industrial society, to even stop it re-emerging if it ever could be destroyed.
To an extent, social movement membership is tied to events which are hard to predict, like the children who grew up in the formerly fascist countries after WW2 formed the most active left wing militant movements, which can be understood to be in part an anger at their parents generation for buying into fascism. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just about learning those lessons, to counsel people to take only the actions which are ethical and the consequences they are comfortable living with, to make the movement as sustainable as possible.
And obviously sometimes getting caught isn’t a total loss to the movement, the publicity received for a worthwhile act of civil disobedience can be a net gain, but it does have to be a struggle people can sympathize with. So, I just don’t see people being inspired by primitivist terror attacks ever catching on as this even minor movement.
It can be annoying or hurtful when others presume they know everything about you. But rather than assert their wrongness and make them defensive, you can acknowledge it as a common human failing and find creative ways to hold a mirror up to what life experiences they’ve had that lead them to jump to those conclusions. One way is a kind of playful authenticity, telling a lie about a lie, to get back closer to the truth. So don’t outright challenge the idea, but don’t live up to it either, in fact live down to it. Playfully undermine the idea by failing to live up to the glamour of what it would mean to be that person, then find a way of revealing that it was a misunderstanding all along, so they needn’t worry about it applying to you.Finally, an often quoted saying, but a poignant one:[3]
I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops.*** Mental Health & Criminal Justice Reform David Kaczynski has often spoken about the need to transform tragedy into a mission. Reflecting on the pain caused by his brother's actions, he said, “The worst thing would be that it’s all just sort of meaningless and people died and Ted was lost and mom died broken-hearted.”[4] But instead of succumbing to despair, he hoped that “if we can create a sense of a mission about helping people and understanding the role of family, that would make it somewhat easier to endure.”[5] His work against the death penalty helped him process his brother’s crimes, but also connected him to the broader human toll of violence. “A lot of our work against the death penalty has involved reaching out to murder victim family members—whether they’re with us or against us—to try to show this isn’t about the offender, it’s really about all of us... I’ve really been sensitized over the years to the victims' experience as well, and I’m just very thankful there were no more victims.”[6] David is also reflective about how families cope with mental illness over time. “A family kind of accommodates itself to a person’s differences... there’s a good side to that... but at the same time, during that process... there can be a loss of perspective... and you don’t realize how far out on a limb you’ve gone and how troubled this person is.”[7] He’s clear that he would have acted differently if he'd known more earlier. “If I knew then what I know now, even just about mental illness, forgetting the Unabomber case, I think we would have tried to get help for Ted at an earlier stage in his life.”[8] There’s a persistent theme of regret and responsibility. “I hope I was a decent brother. Anything he asked for I tried to give him... The things I had to do that were harmful to him, I believe I was kind of forced to do.”[9] And even though he didn’t act with malice, he acknowledges how easily things could have gone differently: “We acknowledge the irrational side [of guilt], but at the same time understand that history might have been different, if we had had just a bit more insight, just a bit more compassion at times when we were challenged.”[10] That sense of interconnection runs through David’s life and outlook: “We’re never really alone. We might feel alone, but we are interconnected in so many ways.”[11] He credits the support of others—“a mother who loved me unconditionally... a wife who had an ethical compass and a love for me”[12]—for helping him through the hardest moments. What’s disturbing is how much violence could have been prevented with earlier intervention. When federal agents searched Ted’s Montana cabin in 1996, “they discovered bomb-making parts and plans, a carbon copy of the Unabomber’s manifesto, and—most chilling of all—another live bomb found under his bed, wrapped and apparently ready to be mailed to someone.”[13] And yet the massive law enforcement apparatus—125 agents, millions of dollars—did not solve the case. David noted, “In the end, the case was cracked by Linda, a private citizen unconnected to the massive investigation. She had never met the person responsible for sending the bombs, only his family.”[14] Linda, for her part, recalled, “We had only the vaguest idea that Ted might be the Unabomber. Many people would have just put those suspicions out of their minds, but I think that it was the pain of the victims that motivated us to continue.”[15] This raises difficult questions: What if our systems had been built around prevention, rather than punishment? What if families could reach out without fearing state violence, or their loved one’s execution? What if care—not just surveillance or suspicion—had been the institutional norm? *** Wholescale Political Reform & Revolution **** The burden on the family and friends of both good and evil revolutionaries David Kaczynski had to navigate the surreal experience of staying informed about his brother’s prison experience through a ‘lady love’ of Ted’s who was obsessed with Ted—not as a person, but as a dark legend. Even as David reckoned with the pain of turning his brother in, he had to deal with outsiders who saw Ted as something larger than life, an icon rather than the man he had grown up with. But this kind of estrangement isn’t unique to those tied to violent revolutionaries. Even the families of those who fight for noble causes can experience a sense of loss. Imagine the friends of Candy Lightner, founder of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Before tragedy radicalized her, she might have been someone they talked casually with about books or shared quiet, ordinary moments with. Then, in an instant, her life was consumed by a cause. Her moral urgency created distance—not because she was wrong, but because she had become someone different, someone for whom everything else now seemed secondary. I feel a novel kind of sympathy for David Kaczynski because this disconnect—the way conviction can reshape relationships—is something I experience too, even when I believe I’m acting with integrity. Holding steadfast to certain character virtues can create an unspoken rift with those living more conventional lives, making it harder to relate in easy, uncomplicated ways. One way I try to bridge this divide is by adopting the role of an absurdist rebel—someone who critiques from the fringes while still existing deep within the system. But I do so with a sense of humor, resisting both total assimilation and total alienation. To illustrate, imagine a thought experiment: say someone were to infiltrate a morally compromised institution, such as the police, with the sole intent of seeing how long they could last before being expelled for refusing to uphold unjust orders. Picture them waiting outside a disciplinary board, sitting next to another officer. The other officer asks, “What are you in for?” and they reply, “Oh, you know—refused to evict a family that had been paying predatory loans for 50 years and missed one payment.” Camus is a great teacher here.[16] He reminds us that absurdity is not a reason to give up, but a starting point. He argues that true rebellion is an act of defense rather than conquest. A rebel does not seek to dominate but to impose limits—on authority, on injustice, and most importantly, on themselves. Unlike revolution, rebellion resists the lure of absolute certainty. It insists on human dignity over ideological purity. This is where Camus and Nietzsche diverge. Nietzsche saw isolation as a virtue, a way to escape the contamination of human interaction. Camus saw it differently: I rebel, therefore we are. Rebellion should not sever human bonds—it should reinforce them. The danger is that all rebellion, no matter how principled, carries the risk of turning cold, of consuming the very empathy that sparked it. This is why Camus warns that rebellion must be practiced with restraint, always mindful of its own limits. In the end, both love and rebellion are necessary. If we don’t rebel, we risk surrendering to injustice. But if we lose our connection to others, we risk becoming what we fight against. The challenge is to do both—to reject absurdity without rejecting each other. **** Pragmatism vs. Idealism Many anarchists hold an optimistic vision of revolution, seeing building up towards a short, decisive period of upheaval as the ideal path to an anarchist society, with prolonged insurrection only as a fallback. They support libertarian socialist experiments like Rojava and the Zapatistas, participate in international solidarity campaigns, and boycott colonial occupation states like Israel, hoping that as more progressive societies grow and succeed, they will pave the way for a peaceful transition to global anarchism. However, insurrectionary anarchists are often far more pessimistic. Some reject international solidarity altogether, believing that no movement can outpace the collapse of civilization. The bleakest perspectives see anarchism as achievable only in the ruins of nuclear fallout. Others believe anarchist and fascist communities will exist side by side indefinitely, locked in an unresolvable conflict, each willing to defend their existence through asymmetrical warfare. I am far more optimistic. I believe a fully anarchist world can emerge, in part, through supporting libertarian socialist revolutions that create the conditions for deeper anarchist transformations. Rojava, despite its many contradictions, provides a compelling case study of what this might look like—especially in terms of its approach to women’s autonomy. During an interview with an internationalist, Josh Walker, who had gone out to fight ISIS in Syria, an interviewer asked how feminist ideals were incorporated into the militia units out there.[17] Josh responded by offering an example as to the women’s houses that had been established. “They’re essentially some sort of mix between a family planning advice center, a domestic violence shelter, and a barracks,” Josh explained. These spaces provided direct protection in a society that remained violently patriarchal. “A woman will escape a forced marriage or a violent home and come to the women’s house,” he said. “Then her father, her brothers, her husband and his family will come to take her back—but when a woman with a machine gun pops up on the roof, they generally reconsider.” Rojava’s councils also enforce a strict gender quota. “There’s a 40% gender quota in the councils,” Josh said. “If a council is 60% women, the remaining 40% must be men, and vice versa. If men show up saying their wives couldn’t come because they were busy, the council tells them to go home, do the work their wives were doing, and send the women instead. Otherwise, they won’t be helped.” Women’s leadership extends into military structures as well. “Most of my best commanders out there were women,” Josh noted. At every level of the hierarchy, male and female commanders hold equal rank—but with a crucial distinction. “A woman can give orders to men, but a man cannot give orders to the women’s units,” he explained. “If a male YPG soldier commits an offense against a YPJ member, it’s the YPJ command structure that deals with it. If, hypothetically, a man were to assault a YPJ fighter, they could drag him off and punish him however they saw fit, and we wouldn’t be allowed to protest or intervene.” Discipline in Rojava also takes distinct forms. “People joke that if you assault a YPJ fighter, they could just drag you off and shoot you,” Josh said. “That’s not quite true—but they are more likely to put you through platforming. That’s when the offender has to stand in front of all the YPJ fighters in the region while each one lays out exactly why what they did was wrong, in excruciating detail, shaming them in front of everyone. It’s a common punishment for intermediate offenses.” Despite the challenges, Rojava’s commitment to gender equality is one of its most uncompromising features. “On economic policy, they make compromises,” Josh admitted. “But on women’s rights? That’s the one thing they don’t compromise on.”