I am sitting in Klaus’s office. It took almost an hour to pass through all the security checkpoints.
My water bottle was taken away, and my Swiss Army knife — which I always carry with me — was confiscated as well. Now I am sitting here, waiting. These controls only really began after 9/11. Has the world become more dangerous since then?
Klaus looks at me and says: “More dangerous? That’s the wrong question. The world isn’t more dangerous — it has become more fragile. Or at least people feel that way.”
“So feeling is enough,” I reply. “Facts no longer seem necessary.”
Klaus leans back: “Feelings decide elections. Feelings justify laws. Facts usually arrive too late.”
“And feelings turn into rules,” I say. “Rules that remain.”
Klaus nods: “Because no one wants to be the one who removes security. Imagine something happens — and a measure could have been abolished.”
“So we keep everything,” I say. “Even what costs freedom.”
Klaus hesitates: “Freedom is abstract. Security is concrete. It can be measured, controlled, administered.”
I think of my knife. A tool. An everyday object. Now a risk. “Before,” I say, “the decision was mine. Now it belongs to the system.”
Klaus answers calmly: “Systems distrust individuals. They work better when behavior is predictable.”
“But that’s exactly the problem,” I reply. “Predictability replaces responsibility.”
Klaus raises an eyebrow: “Or it prevents bad decisions.”
“Or it treats people like children,” I say. “Like in school: rules instead of judgment.”
Klaus is silent for a moment: “Perhaps,” he says, “that is the price of stability.”
I look around. Cameras. Access cards. Glass. Everything appears calm. Ordered. Safe.
“Control reassures,” I say quietly. “But it narrows the space.”
Klaus responds slowly: “And the narrower the space becomes, the less room there is for responsibility.”