PALANTIR - Remember the name

There are names that stir unease before they reveal their intentions. Palantir is one of them—named after Tolkien’s “seeing stones,” instruments of vision, power, and control. Today, the company is embedded in the NHS. A private firm forged in military surveillance and intelligence now holds the keys to millions of patient records.We’re told this is progress. But progress for whom? 

In late 2023, NHS England awarded Palantir a £330 million, seven-year contract to build the Federated Data Platform (FDP), a system meant to centralise NHS data across England. The language—efficiency, modernisation, transformation—is familiar. But beneath it lies the quiet outsourcing of public power to private surveillance. 

Palantir’s history is not one of care. It was born from the CIA’s venture capital arm and honed by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) to track undocumented migrants. More recently, it has been linked to Israeli military operations in Gaza. These are not abstract associations. They reveal a corporate philosophy rooted in control, not compassion. 

This is not the first time data systems have been weaponised. In the 1930s, IBM supplied punch-card technology to the Nazi regime—tools that helped the government identify and track Jewish communities. IBM didn’t run the camps. It built the system that made them possible. Palantir is not IBM. But the logic is the same: power cloaked in neutrality, tools sold as apolitical, consequences outsourced. 

Public trust is already breaking. Nearly half of people in England say they would opt out of sharing NHS data if a company like Palantir is involved. But for most patients, no real opt- out exists. The data is “pseudonymised”—a meaningless term when the company handling it also holds the tools to re-identify. 

Doctors’ organisations have pushed back. The British Medical Association, the Doctors’ Association UK, Medact, and Foxglove have all opposed the deal, citing threats to patient confidentiality and the NHS’s founding principles. A legal challenge is underway over the heavily redacted contract—417 of 586 pages were blacked out—and the lack of a proper tender process. 

Meanwhile, NHS staff on the ground report little improvement. Some trusts find Palantir’s software incompatible with their systems. Others say it increases their workload. At the same time, the company’s liability for data misuse is capped at just £150,000—a laughable figure for a billion-dollar firm. 

So why is Palantir here? 

The answer is depressingly familiar. They were already in the room. During the pandemic, Palantir was granted emergency access to NHS data systems. That foothold gave them an enormous advantage when bidding for the long-term platform. No meaningful alternatives were explored. No public debate was held. 

But there are better options. Platforms like OpenSAFELY, built during the pandemic by NHS doctors and researchers, allow for privacy-preserving, open-source analysis of sensitive data—without the need to centralise or commercialise it. Other European public-health systems use tools like Better (based on openEHR) or UK-developed platforms like Graphnet and Black Pear, which operate without ties to military surveillance. 

The question isn’t whether we need digital transformation in the NHS—we do. The question is who should lead it, and what values they should uphold. 

Palantir does not share the values of the NHS. It is a surveillance firm, not a care provider. And its growing role in our health system—quiet, complex, and largely invisible to the public—risks normalising a future in which healthcare is governed not by ethics or equity, but by algorithms and efficiency. 

If we care about the NHS as a system of care, not control, we must pay attention and do something. 

What we can do: 

- Demand transparency: Full release of the Palantir contract and a public inquiry into the procurement process. 

- Push for a real opt-out: Patients should have the right to refuse sharing their data beyond direct care. 

- Support public alternatives: Invest in NHS-led, open-source platforms with democratic oversight. 

- Lift liability caps: Private companies handling patient data must be fully accountable. 

- Connect: Join campaigns like No Palantir in Our NHS, write to your MP, and amplify voices of doctors, patients, and campaigners. 

The NHS was founded on the belief that healthcare is a right—not a commodity. The more we hand over its infrastructure to corporations built for surveillance and war, the more we forget that promise. 

Palantir does not belong in the NHS.

Breaking the Wall: What Real Allyship Looks Like

I know good men.

Men who sit through discomfort,

who don’t need applause for doing the right thing.

Men who show up — fully, quietly —

because they believe in shared humanity, not performance.

 

I’ve seen what it looks like when a man listens with his whole presence.

I’ve felt the steadiness of being heard without interruption,

understood without being translated.

 

And still — even with some of these progressive types —

there’s a wall.

 

Not one built with bad intentions.

But with old habits.

With self-protection.

With unspoken expectations.

 

It shows up subtly:

a deflection when the conversation shifts to uncomfortable truths,

a correction or explanation that shifts focus back to his experience,

an urge to “fix” rather than simply hold space.

The way my words get weighed before they’re received,

the way my tone is measured more than my meaning.

 

Some progressive men may say they support equality,

but sometimes fall into the trap of expecting “curated” communication —

silencing anger, skepticism, or rawness because it feels “too much.”

They lean in when the message is polished,

but retreat when it’s messy or complicated.

 

I’ve watched them nod in meetings,

then hesitate to call out a wrongdoing,

or stand aside when women are interrupted or ignored.

They champion diversity —

but sometimes forget to challenge the systems they benefit from.

 

And here’s something else I’ve witnessed:

 

Men tend to listen more

when a woman looks a certain way.

 

When her voice is sweet.

When her body is pleasing.

When her demeanour and opinion soften into a smile.

 

I’ve watched men lean in, nod along —

not because the woman was more insightful,

but because she was more “palatable”.

And I’ve seen others — brilliant, brave, messy in all the right ways —

go unheard.

Not because they lacked wisdom,

but because they weren’t curated for the male gaze.

 

We shouldn’t have to perform beauty or restraint

to be taken seriously.

 

And I get it, I’ve fallen in this trap myself. 

Considering my hair, my make-up, my smile, my clothes…

As I know I will be listened to.

And I want so much for this to change.

Not only for me but for my daughter as well.

For all of us.

 

At work, support isn’t about being “open-minded” —

it’s about stepping aside so others can lead.

It’s amplifying women’s voices.

It’s noticing who gets interrupted and who gets the final say.

It’s using your position to shift the dynamic — not just reflect it.

 

In friendship, support isn’t saying “I’m here for you”

when things are light, fun, or flattering.

It’s staying when things get honest.

When we’re not polished or self-contained.

When we simply tumble up.

When we ask questions without expecting quick answers.

 

And in love —

it’s not enough to admire a woman’s strength

if her vulnerability makes you withdraw, 

or her leadership makes you take a step back.

Real partnership means co-creating a space where emotions can exist

without becoming threats.

Where the labor of connection is shared.

Where we’re not expected to tone ourselves down

to keep the other person comfortable.

 

To be an ally isn’t to be perfect.

It’s to be present.

To reflect.

To ask:

Am I truly listening?

Or just waiting to speak?

Do I support her,

or do I admire her when it serves me, it pleases me?

 

And to women —

we don’t need to carry the weight of re-educating everyone.

We don’t need to dress our truth in softness to be heard.

We can be clear.

We can take up space.

We can stop trying to be easy to digest.

 

We can hold the mirror —

but the work of change isn’t just ours to do.

 

The wall won’t fall with one conversation.

But it can crack.

With self-awareness.

With repetition.

With presence.

 

With men who don’t just believe in equality —

*embody* it

in the way they speak,

listen, and show up. 

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Най- благата душа

Баба ми Севда, на която съм кръстена почина.

Исках да напиша нещо…не че не съм губила хора, които обичам много преди…но исках да напиша нещо само за нея.
Не защото го заслужава повече, а защото искам да разкажа, за да може всички да знаят. И поне веднъж прожекторите, вниманието, емоциите да са само и единствено за нея и за никой друг.

Защо?

Защото това беше жена, която тихо, усмихнато, без да търси внимание правеше всичко по силите си за хората около нея. Беше силна, изпълнена с любов, смиреност, трудолюбивост, чувство за хумор, нежност, искреност, приветливост и винаги готова с вкусна гозба да те нахрани и да се погрижи за теб.
Самата тя беше нисичка и фина, с мек глас.  Казвахме й малката баба Севда….но духът й беше огромен.

Като деца често прекарвахме летните ваканции с нея. Тя сама успяваше да гледа със седмици пет от нас - братовчедките и нас със сестра ми и брат ми…Никой! Никой не е успявал да се пребори сам и с петима ни, но тя можеше. Сама. Ние бяхме лудетини до дупка. Но тя го правеше с лекота. Без да иска нищо в замяна, дори благодаря. Никога не се оплакваше, никога не ни дерзаеше, никога не беше намръщена( ех, добре де, изкарахме я извън нерви един два пъти…).

С годините разбрах колко труден е бил животът й и често си мислех как е оцеляла.
Но най- много се чудех как след всичките мъки, тежести, проблеми нямаше и капка цинизъм или сърдитост в нея. 

Нямаше злоба, нямаше обвинителност, нямаше дерзание, самосъжаление….Беше обратното, раздаваше се за най- близките, без много шум, смирено, искрено и с усмивка и без да иска нищо в замяна. Как успяваше и от къде идваше тази светлина и благост…......................

И всички го знаехме и я обичахме много….но сега искам да го извикам от покривите…искам всички да чуят, да знаят, че една от най-благите души ни напусна. 

Тихо, без много шум и фанфари си отиде един безкрайно силен човек за пример за всички нас. 

Поклон, бабе! 

Обичаме те!

Through the Walls: Growing Up Alongside the Rise of Social Media

Before Instagram, before Facebook, before anyone carried the internet in their pocket, there were places like mIRC — lines of green text blinking against a black screen, usernames without faces, conversations that flickered and disappeared into the digital ether. It was clumsy, unpredictable, sometimes reckless — and it felt electric.

Connection didn’t come from a photo filter or a carefully worded post. It came from a stranger typing "hello" at a random time. It came from the wildness of not knowing who was on the other side — and not needing to perform for them. The internet back then could be a risky, unpredictable place — but it wasn’t curated. It was messy, raw, and strangely real. It was a back alley, not a stage.

Those early digital spaces were messy, imperfect, and strangely human. But as technology evolved, so did the way we presented ourselves. The raw, chaotic freedom of anonymous chats gave way to the polished, curated galleries of MySpace, the carefully built profiles of Facebook, and the endless scroll of Instagram. Then came Snapchat and TikTok — platforms where connection became even more performative, fleeting moments packaged for validation and constant attention. The need to be real was replaced by the need to be seen.

Of course, even in the real world, we perform. We wear certain masks, adjust our tone, and choose what parts of ourselves to reveal depending on who we’re speaking to. But face-to-face, presence gives us context. There’s the flicker of hesitation in someone’s eyes, the crack in a carefully rehearsed smile, the tension in a voice. Instinct has a chance to read between the lines.

On social media, those clues disappear. All that remains is the curated surface — the image someone wants us to see. The distance of the digital world makes it easier to create an illusion, and harder to break through it. We aren’t just vulnerable to the performances of others; we become vulnerable to the versions of ourselves we perform, too.

I was there for all of it — first standing at the fringes, then stepping inside. I am part of social media too. But because I came into it gradually, after years of building strong, real-world connections, I can still feel the difference. I remember what it was like to wait for someone’s voice. I know what it means to be present and real without distraction. And because of that, I feel more empowered to see through the shimmering veil that social media casts — the illusion of closeness, the performance of intimacy.

I embrace and encourage new technology. Innovation has opened incredible doors — for creativity, for learning, for connection across vast distances. But it has also built walls. Walls behind which not only predators can hide — but where people hide from themselves. Walls that allow us to curate lives so carefully that we no longer have to face our own fears, insecurities, or dreams. Walls that make it easier to stay disconnected even while appearing more "connected" than ever.

This is the world my children are growing up in. A world where social media starts shaping identity before they even have the chance to discover who they are offline. A world where the pressure to perform can feel heavier than the freedom to simply be.

How do we prepare them for this? Can we delay their entrance into these curated worlds without cutting them off entirely? Can we teach them to see the difference between authentic connection and performative connection? Can we show them that it is still possible — and still vital — to be real?

Recent stories like the new series Adolescence make these questions feel even more urgent. The show follows a young boy deeply influenced by social media, his sense of reality slowly distorted by endless streams of content, validation-seeking, and performance. It is a reminder that the lines between real and curated are blurring earlier and earlier — sometimes before a child even knows how to ask the right questions.

Maybe we can't tear down the walls entirely. Maybe the world our children inherit will always have screens and curated lives. But we can still teach them how to find the doors.

We can model real presence — putting down our phones when they speak, looking into their eyes instead of into a lens. We can create spaces where conversation happens slowly, without distraction. We can remind them that their worth isn't tied to "likes" or "followers," but to how deeply they listen, how bravely they share, how kindly they see.

We can teach them to question the performance, to recognize when they are being pulled into the illusion — and to choose, when they can, authenticity over applause.

Real connection is still possible. It always will be — because at our core, we are wired for it. Even through all the noise, the quiet voices still find each other. And that gives me hope.

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Shapeshifters

We are born with skins like poems—

unwritten, soft with truth.

But somewhere in the echo halls

of schoolyards, dinner tables,

and rooms where silence tastes like judgment,

we learn the art of shifting.

Watch:

the girl who laughs a little louder,

the boy who bites his tongue in half,

the woman who wears confidence

like a borrowed coat,

the man whose softness sleeps

under seven padlocks.

We trade our real faces

for masks that match the crowd.

Smile when it stings.

Shrink when it shines.

We become fluent in pretending—

in being almost.

A nod here, a silence there.

A laugh at the right joke.

We sculpt ourselves to fit,

whittling away what might offend

or confuse

or shine too brightly.

And underneath it all, a belief grows:

that love lives in our absence.

That to be chosen,

we must first disappear.

Be agreeable, invisible,

digestible.

But the animal beneath still stirs—

wild, wanting,

the one who knows how to run free,

howl wrong, dance strange,

or simply sit and be.

We are all shapeshifters

not because we are false,

but because we are frightened

of not being loved

as we truly are.

Still,

there comes a night

or a morning, or a moment between—

when the skin no longer fits,

and the mask begins to itch.

And we remember:

it was never about finding

the right shape to fit in—

but the courage

to stop abandoning ourselves.

To stay loyal

to what trembles within,

even when the world

asks us to disappear.

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