Citizen One Book – The Case Against Government Digital Identity – Chapter 1: Lessons from my Oma

 “Danke.. bitte.. guten Tag.” (Thanks, please, good day).

Four simple German words… that irrevocably altered the course of history for my family.

Four simple German words, hastily thrown together by a U.S. Army soldier during his mission to liberate Berlin in 1945. His rifle was pointed directly at a terrified young German woman, his bloodied finger quivering over the trigger. That young woman was to become my beautiful and gentle grandmother, my Oma.

The soldier struggled with the dilemma before him. He struggled to identify her. Was she just a German, who should be killed like the many others who had stared down his barrel over the prior weeks? Or was she simply a young woman caught in the crosshairs of an horrific war, deserving of a chance at life? Did her identity span both possibilities?

Identity is a matter of life and death in government hands. To the Nazi government, otherwise known as The Third Reich, my Oma’s fate was of no concern. She was just a number, stamped on a mandatory ID card years prior, and left to the whims of invading soldiers. Are we forgetting history’s lessons? How do they apply to you in the digital ID age?

Today, we are sleepwalking into a societal restructure based on uneven information sharing between ourselves and our governments. A structure where our identities are becoming transparent to government, while government is becoming opaque to us. A structure that we now, like Germans then, would not have chosen, had we been paying more attention.

This book exposes the enduring justifications for centralised identity registration, and their predatory outcomes. It challenges the belief that “this time it’s different.” Together, we will explore the essence of identity, trust, technology, and governmental power, revealing the simple fact that some will always seek to exploit these for harm.

But amidst these horrors, this is really a story about love over coercion. My family history shows how love can fulfil our collective responsibility to resist the datafication and commodification of our identities, and it is my honour to share it with you…

“Ensuring we do not move into a world where digital identities replicate existing bias and prejudice in the non-digital world should be a critical threshold issue for the whole Parliament.”

– Australian Federal Senator David Shoebridge, Senate Economics Legislation Committee Dissenting Report, commenting on the Digital ID Bill 2024.

“If the Government sends me an identification card, I shall return it with a letter to explain that I do not need it; I already know who I am.”

– Douglas Graham (Tasmania), Australian newspaper contributor protesting the Australia Card, 8 September 1987. 

“Don’t… Trust… Governments.”

– My paternal grandmother (Oma). Born 1922 (Germany) – Died 2012 (Australia).

My Family: Born in Conflict

Let me tell you a love story. It’s a story born from the conflict of the Second World War. It’s the story of my family, and it starts with my beloved paternal grandmother, my Oma. Born in 1920’s Germany, she was a woman of substantial strength, traditional morals, and unwavering principles. She shared with me her life experiences, and fostered in me a passion for individual liberty, responsibility, and above all, self-identity.

Her father, Fritz, my great-grandfather, was a veteran of the First World War. He had been decorated with the prestigious Iron Cross for heroism at the Battle of Passchendaele. Under artillery fire, he had bravely climbed a tree to sight enemy positions. Having lost parts of his abdomen doing so, he was no stranger to suffering (Figure 1). 

By the Second World War, Fritz had risen to the rank of major in the Wehrmacht (German Army) (Figure 2). Now a father, he lived with my great-grandmother, Charlotte, whom he’d married in 1920, along with my Oma and her younger brother, Manfred. The family home was in a German town called Ratibor, at the time near the Polish border.

The War’s Start

I vividly remember my Oma sharing stories of those days. When I was young, she relived the events of September 1^st, 1939, when her country’s mechanised vehicles of war unexpectedly rumbled through her town, towards Poland. As a teenaged girl, the smell of exhaust fumes and the rattle of the panzer (tank) tracks left an indelible impression on her. She had experienced the genesis of the Second World War firsthand.

Nine months later and a mere 1,100 kilometres to the West, a separate struggle was unfolding. There, on the beaches of Dunkirk, stood my paternal grandfather, Bill. He found himself caught in the relentless onslaught of the Nazi Blitzkrieg (lightning war) [1]. Serving as a warrant officer in the British Royal Signals Corp, he had been deployed to France with the British Expeditionary Force, in response to Germany’s invasion in 1940.

My grandfather had yet to meet my Oma. Indeed, he had no idea that fate would lead him to love and a fulfilling post-war life. Although destined to witness the growth of his grandchildren into adulthood, he and his brothers in arms lived every minute as their last. The gates of hell had swung wide open, and the seemingly unstoppable Nazi war machine had barged straight through. Like my Oma nine months earlier, the sights, sounds and smells of that experience, left an indelible impression on him.

Communication played a critical role in these engagements, with signals units often being the first to arrive and the last to leave the battlefield. Hence, my grandfather became one of the last of over 300,000 British and French soldiers to be evacuated from the beaches of Dunkirk between May 26 and June 4, 1940 (3 p. 529). While others were rescued, he remained highly exposed on the flat beach, relentlessly strafed by the Luftwaffe (German Airforce) as he performed his duties. To this day, his bravery remains a source of great pride, and serves as a personal beacon of defiance against evil, that I strive to emulate.

My grandfather was certainly not a man of violence. He exuded warmth and gentleness, and like my Oma, was a victim of circumstance. He rode motorcycles and horses in impressive displays of balance and riding talent, hosted by the Royal Signals. These events which followed the transition from horseback to motorcycles, were an opportunity to showcase esprit de corps[2] (Figure 3).

Figure 3: My paternal grandfather, Bill, pictured towards the rear with fellow British servicemen circa 1930’s. Royal Signals motorcycle display. Source: Conlon family collection.

The War’s End

Fast forward to 1945—the war in Europe was drawing to a bloody conclusion. My German relatives were living in Berlin, where my great-grandfather, Fritz, had been stationed. By this time, my Oma’s brother, Manfred, had fallen in Operation Barbarossa, the war against the Soviet Union (Figure 4). My family had tragically lost its youngest member, the country was in ruins, and countless thousands of people were homeless, and hungry.

As allied forces advanced on Berlin, Nazi resistance had weakened to the point where children, identified via the government’s population registry, were being conscripted for frontline defensive duties. In a deplorable disregard for humanity, German civilians were seen as mere expendable resources by their government. In one instance, my Oma had been instructed to shoulder “a bazooka,”[3] as she described it, in defence of the city. She was unable to even lift it.

The expectation that young women would shoot at tanks in city streets, highlights the vast reach of Nazi Germany’s propaganda efforts. This colossal disinformation machine, masterminded by Joseph Göbbels—who we’ll meet later— not only terrorised individuals but, more disturbingly, also manipulated the collective psyche of a nation. In the years leading up to this point, the government had worked tirelessly to instil fear throughout the German population via many tactics – a key one being the portrayal of the approaching enemy as savages.

She recalled how the Nazi government’s propaganda had raced through her mind. Like a scene from the movie Downfall,[4] the two vulnerable women huddled in that dark basement, protected only by shadows and prayer, awaiting their fate as the vicious sounds and smells of war inched ever closer outside.

Suddenly, the basement door burst open with a thunderous kick, showering the room with flying splinters of wood. Startled, the women looked up. Blocking the doorway at the top of the basement staircase stood a backlit figure, shrouded in smoke. To their horror, they realised that this was the dishevelled personification of what they had been indoctrinated for so many years to fear most, an African American man wearing the hated U.S. Army uniform.

My Oma’s mouth went dry, as she stared directly into the eyes of her Grim Reaper. The weight of her imminent death bore heavily upon her fragile shoulders. Her heart quivered with a cocktail of complete terror and devastating sorrow. Her mind was instantly engulfed with thoughts of unfulfilled dreams, stolen hopes, and the piercing ache of farewells unsaid. “Manfred!” she thought, “I’ll see you soon.”

It is surreal to me now that my very ability to write this book came down to the split-second decision of that soldier in that precise moment. For an instant, the fate of my entire family line rested in his blood-stained hands. Scanning the room to find only the two women hiding there, the soldier’s battle-hardened face softened as he thankfully arrived at a moral choice. Deciding to label the women victims, not perpetrators, he mustered the only German words he knew to soothe their fear before moving off:

“Danke, bitte, guten Tag.” (Thanks, please, good day).

Little did he realise that those four simple words spoken in that basement on that day would far outlive the terrified women who heard them. They did their job in communicating that his intent was not to slaughter women, yet they also conveyed a far more fundamental lesson. Those four words hit my Oma with a metaphorical force every bit as powerful as the physical ordnance exploding outside. It was the force of reality clashing against the lies of her government.

In a stellar example of how the truth can set you free, one man’s hobbled-together parting gesture had shattered the cumulative propaganda of one of the strongest military empires the world had ever seen. Absolutely everything that the Nazi government had inflicted on their people up to that moment, including compulsory identity registration, had been sold as a necessary protection against evils that had just proven themselves benign. Again, in a very visceral sense, my Oma experienced the end of the Second World War in Europe, just as she had its beginning.

A Dance of Reconciliation

The end of the war did not abruptly halt suffering. Across Europe, daily existence remained arduous. Amidst the settling dust and the fading echoes of battle, the German people grappled with the harsh realities of rebuilding their shattered lives. My family found their place in the intricate fabric of this challenging era, weaving their own modest contribution.

Fritz survived the war and had been reunited with the family. My Oma, and her parents, were living under British occupation in Vienenburg[5] as they tried to process the loss of Manfred, their beloved brother and son. Due to the shortages, an arrangement was in place where families would share accommodation, and food was distributed through a rationing system.

My Oma’s family cohabitated with a man by the name of Knieriem who happened to be a skilled dolmetscher (interpreter).[6] By virtue of his role, Knieriem had an association with, and worked for, the British commandant in charge of the occupied area where they lived. My Oma described the commandant to me as “progressive,” a man who understood that the current living situation was unsustainable in the longer term.

Several factors contributed to this, including the imbalance of supplies[7] and the generally held “us and them” mentality that segregated the people, and hindered post-war integration.[8] Consequently, the commandant solicited suggestions on ways to address these issues, and ease the feeling of occupation held by the German people in his region. Knieriem suggested that a good way to begin integration would be to hold a social ball and invite the locals, along with members of the occupying military. The gathering represented a symbolic olive branch, funded, and catered by the British.

The commandant initially expressed hesitation at this suggestion, doubting any expectation of German attendance. In response, Knieriem noted that he shared accommodation with a German family, my family, that was well regarded in the community.[9] He offered that if they went, then he would be confident members of other German families would also attend, ensuring the event’s success.

Thus, the ball received the green light. The commandant, keen on maintaining decorum, personally oversaw the evening’s proceedings. My Oma and her mother, pivotal in garnering public enthusiasm for the event, were even honoured with seats at the distinguished head table alongside the commandant. [10]

One of the soldiers in attendance at that first ball was my grandfather, Bill. My Oma recounted that he was the only one who approached, asking her to dance. She likely appeared off-bounds given the seating proximate to his commanding officer, so this venture by a sole warrant officer would have required both confidence and initiative. After the success of the ball where my grandparents met and shared their first dance, my family was instrumental in facilitating other similar events in the community.

The ball where my grandparents met symbolised a glimmer of hope and new beginnings, yet it was set against the backdrop of a nation grappling with its identity. The joy they found in each other’s company was a stark contrast to the widespread despair and hardship that the German people faced, as they rebuilt their lives from the ruins.

The post-war era was an extended period of mental and physical difficulty, requiring effort from those such as Knieriem and his insightful commandant. Indeed, my Oma confessed that the ball had provided an opportunity to augment the family rations – by discreetly stuffing food into her pockets. The suffering and fear of the German people during the war, and the years that preceded and followed it, has not been an area of historical focus.

History tends to spotlight the justifiably gallant actions of liberating armies, and their supporting cultures. However, it perhaps poorly features the suffering and gallantry of those forgotten citizens within the borders of runaway authoritarian regimes. In the case of Nazi Germany, ordinary Germans had to contend with enemies both foreign and domestic. They were equally at war with their own government, as they were with foreign troops.

The resilience demonstrated by my grandparents in the face of tyranny is not just family lore; it represents the universal struggle for control over our destinies. These personal narratives serve as a powerful testament to the broader themes we will explore, illustrating how individual lives are inextricably linked to the grand currents of how we express ourselves in the world.

Central Themes

There are three significant themes that dance in my mind when I think of the stories my grandparents shared with me about those days. These are the themes we will explore, at length, in this book.

Theme One: The Tyranny of Human Commodification

Identification and Surveillance as a Weapon Against Freedom

The central theme revolves around humanity’s perennial struggle against identity-based tyranny. In my Oma’s youth, nationalised identity unveiled who people were, and what they could do, while nationalised surveillance laid bare where they were, and what they were doing. Their merger, enforced by the police state, severely curtailed freedom, and eroded the very fabric of life.  

My grandparents wished to spare their descendants from the suffering they had seen this reality produce; a legacy they shared with countless others. [11] They saw their struggles as dire warnings for future generations, alerting them to the horrors that ensue when governments develop a taste for commodifying the people they supposedly serve. This foresight grants the youth an opportunity, although not a guarantee, to sidestep the visceral suffering that occurs on both sides of a government’s border, when the equilibrium of knowledge between it and its population, tips in favour of those in power.

This book delves into that disequilibrium, specifically revealing the predation of centralised government identity registration, warts and all. It uncovers how the Nazis shrouded the construction of just such a system with ornamental justifications, later weaponising it to inflict unimaginable horror on its own people, and the world at large.

Despite entering from opposite sides of that war, my grandparents emerged with a consistent analysis. The profound truth they learned, borne from personal experience, was clear:

“With absolute knowledge of a population’s identity, comes absolute command of its destiny.”

The Apparent Protections of Modern Technology

As we delve into the historical parallels of digital ID systems, one might briefly pause to wonder whether there are contemporary examples that mirror these concerns? How do modern digital ID systems differ from their historical counterparts, and what safeguards are in place today?

While the historical misuse of identity registries by authoritarian regimes raises valid concerns, proponents of modern digital ID systems argue that today’s technology, enhanced with democratic oversight and stringent laws, differs significantly from the past. They emphasise the potential benefits such as enhanced security features, reduced bureaucracy, and increased convenience, contending that these systems merely restructure existing government data, posing no new risks.

Advocates believe that robust safeguards and accountability mechanisms can effectively protect citizens’ rights, highlighting the importance of considering both the risks and the potential advantages of these systems. While this book aims to explore these opposing views, it must be done within the historical context of how data has been weaponised when checks and balances fail. The chilling efficiency of Nazi Germany in using identity data for oppressive purposes, serves as a relevant backdrop.

The Historical Context

These are arguments that have been used to dismiss similar concerns before. The catastrophic consequences of past data misuse justify why concerns about government digital ID cannot be dismissed lightly. Nazi prowess in domestic and foreign identity harvesting, tracking, and statistical analysis remains impressive today.

As early as 1936, Friedrich Burgdörfer [12] as the Director of the Office of Statistics, used population census data to aid the German military. His calculations concluded that the regime would be well placed to wage war against Poland and France combined by 1940. These figures predicted that by that time, more than 300,000 Germans of adequate utility would reach military draft age each year (4 p. 28).

Why should census data be of any concern? This seemingly benign information gifted the Wehrmacht with strategic foreknowledge, which they exploited to precisely time their invasion of Poland, resulting in a devastating loss of young lives. Burgdörfer’s analysis, which was off by a mere four months, reveals the ominous power conferred by absolute knowledge.

The Nazis meticulously tracked individuals on index cards[13], creating a level of insight unimaginable to most. Tools like the Volkskartei (German population registry), proposed to Hitler in 1934 and later forced on the population, allowed the government to know more about its people, than the people knew about their government. This pernicious asymmetry produced constant fear, stemming from the victims’ total blindness to the information held about them by the government.

Collecting identity data was so crucial to Nazi political aims, that census takers closely followed the Wehrmacht into newly occupied territories to identify and segregate people. Statisticians stole identity from the living, just as soldiers had stolen breath from the dead. Once the system had been established, there was simply no escaping it.

A Timeless Struggle for Freedom

But this is no academic study. My Oma matured in an era when power dictated justice; when behaviour was sanctioned by badges on uniforms, and pistols on belts; when so-called security police broke girl’s arms over nuances in their parents’ identity cards, laughing while doing so. It was a time when identifying as Aryan, was the currency by which survival was temporarily purchased from officialdom.

It is often said that “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone”, and there is no more painful loss than that of individual freedom. My Oma’s moral obligation was to pass these lessons of liberty to me, just as it is my moral obligation to pass them to you.

“Protect your privacy and your freedom. They are your greatest treasures.”

she would often say. And she was not alone.

Her words echo a chorus of historical figures, who have also felt the sting of tyranny. Take Patrick Henry, one of America’s Founding Fathers and the first governor of Virgina, who urged us to:

“Guard with jealous attention the public liberty, and suspect everyone who comes near that precious jewel.”

Henry lived through an era when proving loyalty to the British Monarch, rather than genetic purity to a dictator, was the currency by which survival was temporarily purchased from officialdom.

Raised in 1980s Australia, I, like millions of others like me, have inherited the precious jewel of freedom, earned via the toil and sacrifice of gallant men and women who bled before us. However, does inheriting the unearned pose a risk of undervaluation? Intergenerational lessons are as fragile as snowflakes in the midday sun; we tend to dismiss them, only to relearn them anew after they have melted.

Theme Two: Eternal Vigilance

Being Alert

The second theme closely mirrors the first, and focuses on the enduring cost of liberty: eternal vigilance. The defeat of Hitler’s particular brand of tyranny did nothing to secure a struggle-free future. On the contrary, persistent efforts to abuse humanity through identity registration are nearly inevitable. Examples have continually surfaced throughout history, and many remain active today. Each attempt comes cloaked in appealing slogans, and serves to exploit the social anxieties of the day.

Despite these disguises, the unmistakable hallmarks of human stocktaking remain constant: appeals to efficiency and virtue, manipulation, de-humanisation, laws, and punishments. Recognising these recurrent patterns serves to guard against apathy, which blinds us to the slow but steady encroachment of such systems.

Tyranny is a patient foe. When it resurfaces, its oxygen is charitable sounding legislation, and its food is propaganda. It will patiently wait decades to creep up on you in the shadows while you sleep. It claims to be the alibi of every generation’s collective safety, and yet views us with contempt, and our children with disdain. Regardless, it needs our assistance, relying on incremental public policy, and ignorant compliance, to have palpable effect.

So pervasive are the ongoing attempts to centrally manage identity, that my grandparents faced the threat twice in their lives. Having narrowly escaped Europe’s identity scourge, they came face to face with the same predator over four decades later, on the other side of the world. “The Australia Card,” proposed in the 1980s, demonstrated how a country of alert and invested individuals bridged political, economic, and social divisions, to protect yet another generation from a similar fate to Germany.

Our Modern Obligations

Today, it is our turn. On our watch, governments continue to extend their influence into ever more aspects of our lives. Global institutions are standardising their policies, and increasingly using force in their approach, all while trust in democratic processes continues to fall.

The contemporary tyrant’s toolkit is slick and modern. Technological advancements have opened the door to a level of totalitarian control that is now more invasive than ever. In these dangerous circumstances, no facet of social life can thrive—be it in economics, culture, science, technology, or administration, the state-sponsored centralisation of human identity, is progressively paralysing an otherwise prosperous time.

Are we truly ready for digital ID? Its adoption amidst the emerging Artificial Intelligence (AI) and Machine Learning (ML) phenomena remains unproven. Concerns are growing over its proposed use to police the internet against increasingly eclectic threats. In our society, driven by convenience and hedonism, especially in an era dominated by social media and smart devices, we risk navigating these uncharted waters blindly.

The Historical Context

Yet we are not completely without guidance. The warnings from 1930s Germany are pertinent today for those with eyes to see. This was not an ancient culture from which we have fundamentally evolved, The Second World War transpired less than a century ago, a mere two or three generations. This was not a culture that had lost its moral compass, Germany was a profoundly Christian society at the time. Nazi registration and census policies were not an historical aberration. Rather, they parallel the digital ID and surveillance policies governments are hurriedly adopting today, seemingly without care, caution, or concern, let alone debate, discretion, or deliberation.

An individual’s competencies, once known by the Nazis, condemned them to mandatory work assignments considered best aligned to the war effort. In a very real sense, they became slaves, unable to control the most basic parts of life, such as where to live, and when to wake up for work. Nazi statisticians produced metrics for expected human work output. If an individual’s productivity fell short of that anticipated, using metrics based on a deep knowledge of their identity, they were considered deficient. Today, we offer these observations willingly, with cloud connected Fitbits and live security camera feeds from within our homes and workplaces.

In contrast, an individual’s deficiencies, once known by the Nazis, condemned them to sterilisation[14] or murder. Malnourished slaves, German or otherwise, deemed to be working too slowly in Nazi factories were “beaten to death” (5 p. 14). Nazi population statistics coldly identified those people of net economic value to the government, and those who were not. This metric, in lieu of any appreciation for individual qualities, was all that mattered once identity registration had sufficiently de-humanised the population. Today, many are compelled to advertise deficiencies and disabilities to the government, in return for payments or perks.

Theme Three: Love Offers a Solution

Moving Forward Together

The third, and perhaps most personal theme from the story of my grandparent’s union, is that love will prevail, but only if we allow it (see Figure 5). My Oma personally witnessed the February 1945 bombing of Dresden.[15] She jumped from a train on the outskirts of the city and ran for cover under trees, to watch in horror while 3,900 tons of explosives incinerated,[16] asphyxiated,[17] and buried alive up to 250,000 men, women, and children.[18] The resulting 1,600 acres[19] of firestorms alone are thought to have killed tens of thousands of people (6).

Despite this, she married and deeply loved an honourable man who once fought under the same Union Jack worn by the Lancaster and Mosquito bomber pilots, high above her that night. With love, great things are possible. Whether they be bombs falling from the sky or worse, digtial ID, great evils can be overcome not through apathy, but by finding the good in humanity, spreading awareness, and building alternative outcomes and solutions.

Love enables us to set aside our petty differences and focus on building a future worth living for, one where the need to delegate the determination of trust to the government is obsolete (see Figure 6). With love, we can get to know our communities personally, rather than via government decree; which brings us to my thesis.

Thesis

This book’s central argument is that we are unwittingly heading towards a cultural transformation characterised by an uneven exchange of information between citizens and their governments. In this emerging framework, our personal information is increasingly accessible to the state, while the workings of government are being increasingly hidden from us.

Likewise, we are ceding control to major corporations that mandate identification for their products and services. These entities can shape our behaviour by restricting access to vital resources, such as social media platforms that serve as modern public squares for free speech, simply for seeing the world differently. The hardships resulting from vaccine mandates of recent years exemplify how such power can impact those with differing views.

Time to Wake Up

Modern society has fallen victim to a collective failure of imagination. Together, we have been lulled into indifference, easily distracted from the true direction that governments and corporations are seeming herding us. We have failed to, or perhaps we refuse to, imagine what may happen if we pursue our current path. Equally, we simply do not see what could be if we choose a better one. Instead, rational debate is moving further outside the Overton Window, the range of politically acceptable discussion.

The literature of our time has an obvious gap. We need a broadly palatable body of research to appeal to the middle ground if we are to gift our children the same freedoms gifted us by my grandparents’ generation. We need to lovingly rouse those asleep to the very real dangers we face in the coming months and years. This requires knowledge, for knowledge is power. You are now holding that body of knowledge in your hands.

This thesis asserts that historical mass identity registries have led to catastrophic outcomes, and today’s digital versions, which we will explore in Chapter Four, could potentially do so again. Exploring this thesis successfully requires consideration how current generations interact with technology.

Millions of people today undervalue anonymity (7), casually submitting their DNA to companies that claim to offer “real science, real data and genetic insights” (8). They do this, seemingly unaware of the grave historical consequences of revealing genetic data, clearly shown by the repercussions of the 1933 Law for the Prevention of Genetically Diseased Offspring (4 p. 102).

The loss of privacy, especially genetic privacy, through these types of registries and biometric databases, has resulted in real suffering, with people losing their lives, children facing unspeakable atrocities, and entire lineages being wiped out. It is our fundamental duty to critically examine the infrastructure and laws being implemented right now, rather than giving them a mere cursory glance.

Many find comfort in the belief that laws safeguard rights in the digital age. However, Dr. John Lennox, a scholar and author at the crossroads of science, philosophy, and religion, cautions that the reliability of these safeguards is uncertain without guidance from a universal moral standard.:

“Hitler, in his political youth, made treaties but he tore them up once he got into power.” [20]

Even in democratic societies, there is potential for governments to misuse data, particularly during crises when extraordinary measures seem justified. Laws are simply formalisations of power, mirroring the perspectives of those able to inflict them. The resulting temptation for control can undermine the democratic principles designed to protect citizens.

Furthermore, treating others by consensus may be functional in cultures built on equal centres of power. Each can withhold value from the other to ensure negotiation occurs. Yet it is easily argued that the modern world has enabled great power imbalances. In such a case, one would expect similar asymmetry to be paralleled in the laws passed in such cultures.

A law can equally forbid, or mandate murder, but it cannot explain why either is preferable. The best approach, is therefore to prevent the construction of technical systems that are dangerous when legislation fails. We are comfortable making this argument with AI, yet we largely fail to do so where digital ID is concerned. The choice to not build infrastructure that may be weaponised by government is itself also an act of democracy. The collective inaction of thousands of engineers and technicians represents a choice to not allow these powerful tools to be placed in the hands of the already powerful.

What do People Really Want?

Some government digital ID advocates often claim a strong public demand and support, but evidence suggests otherwise. Research by Redfield & Wilton Strategies in July 2023 indicates that the economy, taxation, immigration, crime, and election integrity are primary concerns for voters. Digital ID did not even make the list, which is surprising given that “don’t know” was included as a category. Moreover, eighteen percent of respondents identified government spending as a concern, hinting that the cost of implementing and running digital ID could exacerbate rather than ease voter concerns. (10)

A related argument could be made that digital ID can reduce environmental impact by minimising the resources associated with physical documents, thus reducing the footprint of identity management. However, it is important to weigh this against the energy consumption and environmental toll of supporting large-scale, centralised digital infrastructures like always-on data centres and networks.

If we value the environmental impact of our systems and institutions, then we are best served by addressing the low hanging fruit first. We must focus on the savings realised when government abdicates its resource hungry identity ambitions. The cost of living and housing pressures represent the most visible of many contemporary struggles, making the need to be sparing with funds increasingly important. A more effective approach to reducing environmental impact then, might be to significantly cut government bureaucracy. This tactic could potentially reduce significantly more waste than introducing new bureaucratic measures, thinking that aligns far better with Redfield & Wilton’s voter feedback. 

Anecdotal observations support these findings. Everyday conversations frequently revolve around the cost of living and immigration, yet there is a notable absence of discourse on the need for digital ID. Not once have I heard someone raise the issue as their life’s main priority. This prompts the important question: does the legislative push for digital ID truly reflect the public’s organic will, or is it a policy driven by officials, and passively accepted by a population preoccupied with more immediate concerns? These questions are particularly important to ask when historical attempts to impose centralised government identity management, such as the Australia Card in the 1980s, were proven to use manufactured public support as a manipulative tool[21].

Even if we concede a high demand for digital ID exists, it underscores the need for free market competition to foster a competitive environment with superior products. Government solutions tend to be slow, costly, and inferior compared to free-market offerings, where providers jostle for voluntary customer patronage by offering the best identity products. Unlike mandated solutions, which don’t need to prove their efficacy due to a lack of alternatives, free market options must demonstrate their value to attract and retain users.

Our Journey

The What

Within the following pages, we will embark on a journey. Its path exposes the essence of identity, reveals the nature of trust and technology, and converges on the true face of government, revealing a litany of sins that must not be forgotten. This exploration is interwoven with the fabric of my family’s lived experiences, offering a poignant lens to see how identity has become a canvas upon which governments wield a formidable brush.

Together, we will delve into the real-world manifestation of identity and the significant effects of its exposure, including resource denial and vulnerability to exploitation. This exploration will deepen our self-knowledge and shed light on government efforts to eliminate our anonymity. We challenge the idea that governments are the sole architects of societal trust and order. Instead, we expose the dangers of centralised judgments of character, highlighting the misuse of labels such as ‘terrorists’ and ‘undesirables’ for political ends.

We will learn that trust, essential for society, should not be delegated to a powerful few, swayed by donors and intoxicated with power. Trust should instead grow organically within the community it benefits.

Using original type-written Nazi documents, the perils of government-led identity initiatives that claim to foster trust, become clear. These ideas often come disguised as utopian visions of safety, security, and convenience. Yet the interpretation of our identity data required for these unobtainable dreams can shift with political climates, leading to retrospective judgments of innocence.

Amidst these sombre reflections, we will also uncover rays of positivity. Entrepreneurs and engineers who, in the vast expanse of the identity space, are crafting alternatives to this centralised future. In what’s known as self-sovereign-identity (SSI), we find a beacon of hope, a life raft for those who dare to champion a future where individuals can reclaim and retain control over their own identities.

But I must caution that this book will most certainly change you. By the end, you will see the world with a fresh clarity, and appreciate that dark forces have always seen our identity as the key to impose their political and social will at scale. Despite the Australian flavour, this journey may be superimposed upon any Western nation and beyond, all of which currently push similar agendas, albeit under differently-named legislation.

By the conclusion, and with your help, digital ID’s predation will become a cornerstone of everyday discussion. You will become a custodian of important truths that come with a commensurate obligation to share. It may also come with difficulties, as most pursuits of value do.

The How

As we delve into these narratives, it is important to reflect on the tone we adopt. The urgency and intensity that permeate our discourse are not without purpose. In times when society’s vigilance wanes and the stakes are high, a forceful articulation is not merely a stylistic choice, but a moral imperative. Such a tone may draw criticism, often labelled as alarmist or conspiratorial, yet this is a small price to pay if it adequately conveys the gravity of the situation. If history has taught us anything, it is that complacency can lead to catastrophe. Therefore, if our warnings are heeded and we err on the side of caution, that is a victory. But if our concerns are vindicated, then the strong tone we have chosen will have been not only necessary but perhaps even lifesaving.

Accusations of alarmism are common techniques against those who challenge mainstream narratives, a topic we will crystalise when discussing labels in Chapter Three. Labelling dissenting or unpalatable views in this way is an Ad Hominem attack, an emotional reaction when deeply held beliefs are challenged. This linguistic tactic criticises the person, or their motives, instead of engaging with the argument itself, revealing a lack of rational thought. As such, these labels can generally be dismissed as something other than logical, civil discussion.

Furthermore, in an era dominated by “fake news” and “fact-checking,” such terms serve to abruptly halt discussion based on emotion, not dispassionate facts. They are the rhetorical equivalent of pulling the fire alarm at a graduation dinner. One would hardly remain in one’s chair, continuing to eat, until evidence of the alarm’s validity materialises. The cry “fake news!” sees people rush to the exits, asking questions only later, if at all. This approach does not resolve debate, but highlights the fact that more is needed.

This tactic can also be attributed to a misunderstanding of time horizons. Months and years may pass without any manifestation of the warnings in this book. Yet we do not know where we fit in the broader cycle of human behaviour over decades and centuries. The accusation of alarmism fails to recognise this book as a risk mitigation for possibly unlikely, yet severe outcomes. It fails to acknowledge that given sufficient time, encountering these events is likely inevitable.

Advocating for seat belts with graphic warnings, might seem alarmist to those who have never experienced accidents. Yet the risk of encountering a drunk driver looms at every intersection. Normalcy bias, the idea that what happened yesterday will continue tomorrow, does nothing to protect us from the next identity abusing regime, perhaps lurking just around the corner.

The Why

The German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote:

 “he who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”

So why should the rejection of centralised, government controlled digital ID be of interest to us? What makes it worth sacrificing an evening with our favourite streaming services, or a weekend fishing with friends to consider? It is because, as we shall explore, these systems threaten the very freedoms that permit us to stream video, and go fishing with friends.

Knowledge of identity, is possession of the means to define what that identity is, and what it is permitted to do. Without the freedom to keep our identities to ourselves, all other topics of discussion are academic. By handing possession of our identities to a centralised digital authority, rather than retaining them for ourselves, we render all other pursuits meaningless. If you value your streaming and fishing, you by default value the possession of your individual identity.

What are our choices? We are poised at the precipice of a decision that will change civilisation. The first option is to embrace and firmly claim title to the countless qualities that comprise our individual identities, and consequently the sovereignty to decide our own futures. The second option is to collectively abandon our identities to a monolithic, centralised digital database, where our every thought, feeling and action is surveilled, and “one size fits all” policies and punishments are imposed without hope of redress.

Liberty’s flame is fragile. We need to make this decision quickly as freedom is not passed to our children in the bloodstream. It is like an Olympic torch, held and protected by every generation’s run, before being handed to the next, for them to do the same.

My intention with this book is to keep that vulnerable flame of liberty alive; to keep my Oma’s cautionary tales where they belong, in the past. We all have a moral obligation to point out threats to that precious jewel. My hope is that you arrive at the same conclusions as a particular British warrant officer, and the daughter of a German major once did. Our tolerance for the injustice of digital ID should be paper thin. If we truly live in a society that values inclusion and equality, as we constantly claim, then now is the time to put talk into action.

For these reasons we should be interested in digital ID. Its hurried and unchartered rollout is a Trojan Horse that risks extinguishing liberty’s flame for generations, if not forever. Drawing from the lessons of history, we can envision a scenario—as speculative as it may be—where, left unchecked, government identification and surveillance provides the tools for tyrants, present or future, to deprive our children of life’s essence.

This is not a prediction but a distinct possibility, and one that has previously become a reality. Behind the bars of future gulags, should such a grim future come to pass, your enslaved children will wonder why their parents’ love for them was insufficient to fight against such policies, when there was still time.

This book may help spark enough good souls into action to avoid that future. It may just save our children’s lives. There are moments in history that call upon people of the lessor nobility to perform feats of the greater purpose. I extend an invitation to join me on this quest, and should you accept, breathe deeply, and turn the page. Things are about to get dark…

[1] Lightning war was an effective military tactic used by the Wehrmacht to quickly overwhelm opposition with targeted use of tanks, infantry, artillery, and air support.

[2] A sense of adoration, comradery, and dedication to a group with a common cause. Common in military units.

[3] Unfortunately, details of the specific weapon were not divulged before my Oma’s passing. It was likely she could not identify it at the time. From available information, it was likely the 88mm Raketenpanzerbüchse 54 anti-tank rocket launcher commonly known as Panzerschreck (tank fright).

[4] 2004 directed by Oliver Hirschbiegel

[5] Borough of Goslar, capital of the Goslar district, Germany.

[6] At the time, this vocation was considered distinct from (and more prestigious than) a translator.

[7] The military seemed to have better access to food, for example.

[8] The presence of foreign troops understandably created a sense of friction and discontent within the local community.

[9] The family had been affluent before the war, owning a vineyard that provided employment. They had also often engaged in community philanthropy which earned a good reputation for my great-grandfather in particular, who was a known Iron Cross recipient.

[10] My Oma could not recall the commandant’s name as she told me this story from her death-bed in palliative care. If fate happens to place this book in the hands of his descendants, I would be most interested in making contact.

[11] We will visit this noble characteristic again when discussing how deployed Australian volunteers were against attempts to introduce Australian conscription during the First World War on the grounds that they knew what suffering the conscripts would be involuntarily subjected to.

[12] Born April 24th 1890, Burgdörfer was instrumental in furthering German statistical analysis. He notably established the 1925 “economic and social-statistical evaluation” census, the first to capture data on an individual’s physical and mental fragility (3 p. 16).

[13] A system proposed by Freiburg Lawyer Erwin Cuntz which we will explore in Chapter Four.

[14] Estimates of those sterilised under the Law for the Prevention of Genetically Diseased Offspring range from 250,000 to 500,000 (12 p. 61).

[15] The horror of this experience is not easily articulated. One attempt however comes from Eleonore Kompisch who was in Dresden during the bombings. “Until the bombing of Dresden I was very religious, but after that I lost my faith completely. I could not believe any more.” (5)

[16] Charred bodies, hardly recognisable as human, littered streets. Some were atomised, like petrol in a carburettor, beyond physical form.

[17] The fierce building fires sucked oxygen from cellars below, asphyxiating people sheltering there.

[18] This estimate accounts for the influx of undocumented refugees from the Eastern front (5).

[19] An area equivalent to 6.5 square kilometres.

[20] Starting at 1:06:00 into the discussion.

[21] We will justify this in Chapter Six.